


Shuffle

by turn_turn_turn



Series: Unbroken Record [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Music, Pining, Pop culture confetti, and a bad pun or two, gratuitous use of train metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:58:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turn_turn_turn/pseuds/turn_turn_turn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FOUND: PRIMITIVE TECHNOLOGY HARBORING A TRULY FANTASTIC MUSIC SELECTION</p><p>DISCOVERED ON A BROOKLYN-BOUND B TRAIN ON SEPTEMBER 13TH</p><p>IF YOURS PLEASE CALL THE NUMBER BELOW WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THE CUTE-ASS LITTLE COLLAGE ON THE BACK</p><p>IF YOU ARE AS AMAZING AS YOUR BEAUTIFULLY CRAFTED PLAYLISTS, FINDER WOULD LIKE TO POLITELY REQUEST A COFFEE-DATE AS COMPENSATION FOR THE OBJECT'S SAFE RETURN</p><p>---</p><p>You know what they say about music...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Track 1

It's easier with his eyes closed. He focuses on the vibration of the floor under his feet, anticipating the veer of the train  car when the rumble of the tracks alters and skips, able to lean his body into the sway. 

Bucky tilts his head back against the window, his bun a small round knot against his skull that presses in painfully as the movement of the train shifts his body back and forth. He can't wait to take his hair down, to shuck off his crumpled scrubs, to take a hot shower.  

 _Or maybe even a bath,_ he thinks to himself, stretching his legs out in front of him and feeling his kneecaps pop.   

It's been a good day, but a long one, and every joint in his body is creaking and swollen. He wants badly to massage the stiff tissues of his shoulder stump, but he doesn't have the energy to remove the small dog-shaped pin that's been keeping his empty sleeve tucked up. And - if he's being honest with himself - it's not really the sort of thing he wants to do in public, as he's likely to fumble with the pin-back.  

Not that his current surroundings are all that public; his car of the B line is empty aside from himself and a teenage couple entwined on a pair of seats at the other end. He sighs and closes his eyes for a few beats, the loud rattling of the car somehow soothing to his throbbing temples; he wonders if this is another side effect of being a lifelong city-dweller, the same conditioning that's left him immune to the garbage-tinged smell of the streets.   

Opening his eyes, he scans the cardboard ads affixed to the car wall opposite him, spying one for Mount Sinai Hospital, the place whence he's just left, a few seats away. As he lazily slides his eyes further down, passing over the orange plastic seats with their myriad nicks, scrapes, and carved initials, he spots an object lying under the seat directly facing him.   

Intrigued, he waits for the train to stagger into the next stop before taking advantage of the momentary pause in motion, swaying to his feet before squatting in the aisle to reach for the object.  

It's an iPod. Specifically a beat-up, white iPod Classic, the silver metal of the backing scuffed to a dull sheen.  

 _Jesus, it's a fucking fossil._   

The thing must be a decade old. The heft of it in his hand is almost startling compared to the weight of his own sleek iPhone, currently residing in the right pocket of his scrub pants.  

 _Who on earth_ _has one of these_ _still_ _kicking around?_  

He glances briefly toward the canoodling couple at the other end of the car before turning back to his seat. The iPod must have been under that bench since before Bucky himself had boarded, and the couple hadn't gotten on until a few stops after that.  

 _Can't belong to either of them. Plus, this thing is almost as old as they are._  

Back in his seat, Bucky presses the center button of the iPod with an incredulous smirk, his eyebrows raising a notch higher as the small square screen comes to life.  

 _It_ _lives!_  

Amused, he clicks through to the 'Artists' menu and begins scrolling. A few seconds later his eyebrows climb higher; the first fifty artists in the list are almost identical to those in his own music library.  

 _Huh._  

He peers closer at the list, now truly interested.  

....The B52s, B.B. King, Beach House, The Beach Boys, Beck, Beirut, Ben E. King, Billie Holiday...   

The iPod contains a fairly eclectic mix of classic rock and folk, older blues and soul, and a peppering of modern alternative. Very little pop and rap.

Bucky is appalled at the absence of Biggie from the artist list – _Can't possibly belong to a 90's kid, then –_ but is slightly consoled to find Nicki Minaj there.  

 _What self-respecting American doesn't have at least a little_ _Onika_ _in their library?_  

He continues to scroll. Many of the bands Bucky knows and loves well, others he's never come across before. He wonders idly what the iPod's owner is like.  

 _They've obviously got_ _fantastic_ _taste in_ _the music department_.  

Bucky knows that basic preferences in music and books and movies have no bearing on one's personality – _I'm_ _NOT_ _the_ _pretentious_ _hipster_ _Natasha is always accusing me_ _of being_ \- but still, he wonders. Then he catches sight of his reflection in the window across from him: the long brown hair in a messy bun, the rounded tortoise shell glasses, the vintage, wiener-dog-shaped pin stuck to the arm of his scrubs.  

 _Christ, maybe Nat has a point._   

He scans through the handful of playlists on the iPod. Each one seems to have been carefully and specifically named: 'morning commute,' 'late night on the b,' 'tuesdays with ma,' 'sketching,' 'blues for the mean reds,' 'early morning run,' 'evening run,' and 'bedtime.'  

 _Wow that's... cute as shit._  

On impulse he roots around in his backpack for his headphones, plugging them into the iPod and selecting the - _Hi_ _ghly appropriate, like, odd how highly_ _appropriate. What is this,_ Serendipity _? Does this iPod come with a Kate Beckinsale?_ \- 'late night on the b' playlist. He doesn't read through the song titles first, just presses down on the play button and waits.   

After a few seconds, the guitar chords and trumpet trills of 'Wigwam' by Bob Dylan fill his ears.  

Bucky can’t help a smile from sweeping over his face. Around him the train car sways as it shuffles to a stop, the motion seeming to flow with the music. His smile gets wider.  

By the fifth song - 'Draw Me Closer' by Doris Troy - Bucky is fully enamored. Every song seems to fill his chest with a warm puff of air, his frame getting lighter and lighter, the exhaustion evaporating out of his limbs.  

He scrolls through a few other playlists, impressed by the obvious amount of thought behind each song selection. He recognizes most of the song names and artists, loving that he can spot trends among the different lists; there's always at least one Billie Holiday number in each selection and almost every playlist finishes on something long and melancholy.   

His stop finally arrives and he makes his way through the station, iPod still in hand, coming up the stairs to the street and into a warm September night. It's a quick walk to his apartment, the lights of Brooklyn glowing softly around him as Tom Waits growls 'Come On Up to the House' - _Jesus, this_ _playlist is amazing -_ in his ears.   

He pulls the headphones off with regret as he climbs the stairs of his building, carefully stowing them with the iPod in the front pocket of his backpack, consumed with thoughts about its owner. He can't help but picture Kate Beckinsale in his mind's eye.  

 _Yeah, if we all had John Cusack's luck._  

Swinging the door open with a jingle of keys, he finds Nat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced across her knees and a glass of wine in her hand.   

"Hey, Sweets. You're back late tonight," she greets him, her normally gravelly voice gone soft and slightly sleepy. 

"Hey, Sugar. Yeah - long damn day." He groans theatrically and lowers himself beside her, tossing his bag onto the coffee table in front of them.

He glances over at her, her beautiful face softly lit by the blue light of her computer screen. She doesn't move her eyes from the article she's reading, but one auburn eyebrow raises expectantly as she perceives his agitated mood with whatever extra-human sense she possesses.  

 _Or it's possible she_ _just_ _knows you too well._   

Bucky sighs. "Nat?"  

"Mhmm?" she grunts, still not looking away from the laptop screen.   

"I've got a problem," Bucky tells her.  

"Animal or vegetable?"  

"Ah, definitely animal. I... found something."  

"Another gray hair? James, we talked about this - these things happen eventually, you don't have to get all -"  

"No! Jesus, it wasn't-"  

"Oh my god, was it a pube? It was a gray pube, wasn't it?" She leers at him, grinning.   

"Jesus fuckin' _Christ_ , no! I am not talking about my pubes with you - not in this specific conversation, or in any other conversation you and I will ever have. I found an _iPod_."  

She stares at him, expressionless. "You found an iPod. And?"   

"On the train."  

"You found an iPod on the train. Again, _and_?"   

"And I'm completely smitten with whomever it belongs to, and I'll never know who it is, even though they might look like Kate Beckinsale - or John Cusack, for that matter, either one works for me - and my life is horrible." He offers her an exaggerated pout.   

"Come again?" Nat blinks at him.  

"That's what she did. They're my soulmate."   

"The iPod is your soulmate..."  

"No, fuck you, the owner of the iPod."  

She pauses, taking him in with her hawk-like stare. "Okay, let me get this straight. You, who haven't been on a date in over two years? Who was just last week whining to me about your 'crushless, hermit existance'? You, _James_ , fell head over heels for a piece of hardware you found on the B line?"   

"...Yes?"  

"You are a hopeless fucking _sap_ , Barnes."   

Bucky groans and pulls one of their decorative pillows – _Where did Clint find these things? -_ over his face.  

"Tell me something I don’t already know and loathe," he groans from behind the fabric.   

"Let me see this thing."  

Coming out from behind the pillow, which is inexplicably covered in embroidered birds, Bucky reaches for his backpack. He pulls out the iPod and tosses it toward her.   

" _This?_ This is the literal object of your desire? It's like an ancient artifact. This still _works_?" She doesn't wait for a response, pressing the center button and quickly scrolling through the menu. "James, there's barely anything on here. How is it possible to fall in love with this?"   

"The music, Nat. Jesus, what else? It's not like that thing can carry much. But the music! Whoever it is, we have _exactly_ the same taste. And there's all these adorable playlists -"  

"You pretentious, hipster motherfucker."   

"Nat!"  

"James, you can’t fall for someone based on their music library!" she scoffs at him, rolling her eyes. "It means jack shit about them -"   

"I _know_ that, Jesus. It's not just sharing the same artists and crap, it's – it's the playlists, really. They're... they're perfect. I only listened to one and it blew my mind," Bucky tries to explain, earning another truly impressive eye roll from Nat.  

 _If she's not careful she's going to sprain something._  

He continues, "It's not really the music – most of it I've heard before – it's how it's put together. Like whoever this belongs to could plan the soundtrack of my life. It's _narrative_. I dunno, I can't really explain it."  

Nat continues to regard him with a blank expression.   

"I just love them," Bucky mumbles. "The playlists, I mean. And potentially whoever made them." 

"You are a ridiculous human." Nat shifts her eyes back to her computer screen and takes a sip of her wine.   

"Well, yeah, duh. We know this about me. But it's still a problem."  

"James." She looks back at him, her mouth firmly set but there's humor in her eyes. "We've just agreed that music taste doesn't count, so I will say this: You cannot fall in love with someone you know absolutely nothing about."   

"Can too! In fact I would argue that it's much easier to love someone the _less_ you know about them. Less info, less opportunity for disappointment." Bucky smiles at her in an effort to convincingly deliver this line as a joke.  

As usual his efforts are wasted on Natasha.    

"Boom," she says, dramatically pointing a finger at his chest, "hit the nail on the fucking head, Barnes." Her tone has flipped, fully serious now, and her eyes are boring into his, full of understanding and exasperation.  

Bucky looks away, feeling his smile falling. "Nat, let's not -"  

"No! James, you've got to deal with your intimacy issues. You've been basically hiding yourself away for the past two years -"  

"I don't want to talk about Brock right now." Bucky covers his eyes with his hand, squeezing the bridge of his nose, all traces of humor gone from his voice.   

"I wasn't saying we should." Nat's expression softens. "It's just... James, I _know_ you're lonely. I know you want connection outside of me and Barton and the people you work with. But the only way to get it is to open yourself up again." She looks down at the iPod on the cushion between them. "Latching on to fantasies isn't going to cut it. You should get out there, meet some new people. Some _real people_ , not outdated little machines."   

Bucky still can't meet her eyes. "I know. It's just... I know. Can we just go back to joking, please? I can't... It's been a long day."   

"Of course," she says, gently. "Want some wine? The bottle's on the kitchen counter. I _think_ there might be a sip or two left."   

"Mhmm, that sounds good," he mutters, but he makes no move to stand.  

He looks over at her screen, open to an article about the science behind the perfect chocolate chip cookie.  

 _Hell yeah, she's in a baking mood_.  

They are both quiet for a moment as they read about brown versus white sugar.   

"Music preference really doesn't count toward compatibility, you know," Nat assures him, the light amusement back in her voice. "Look at me and Barton."   

As if her words had summoned him, they hear the grating of keys in the lock seconds before Clint busts through the door. He has his tiny, purple backpack slung over one shoulder and massive headphones pulled over his ears - the wireless, noise-cancelling monstrosities that he'd bought to be compatible with his hearing aids.  

Clint throws his bag down onto the armchair with vehemence and begins whipping his head back and forth, wailing on an air guitar. Bucky wonders how the huge headphones can remain in place under the force of Clint's violent headbanging. 

  _What brand are those? I should get some._    

After a good thirty seconds of this performance, Clint points theatrically at Bucky and shouts, "Buck! Drum solo!"   

Bucky quickly obliges, improvising wild movements with his one arm over the invisible drum set before him.  

The song apparently finished, Clint pulls down his headphones to rest around his neck. His blonde hair is mussed in chaotic waves over his forehead. He squeezes himself down onto the couch into the space between Bucky and Nat, panting slightly and giggling.  

Bucky, likewise breathing hard and giggling, gives him a lazy salute.   

Nat looks back and forth between the two of them, unimpressed. "You two are infants."   

"Excusssse me," Clint drawls at her. "You'd better correct that to 'infant musicians' if you don't want to lose your groupie privileges." He waggles his eyebrows at her. "Buck and I are a serious band."   

He and Bucky bump fists while Nat gives Clint her best death-ray stare.   

Immune to her murderous looks by this point, Clint looks nonchalantly between her and Bucky. "So what up with you guys?" He waves his hand around in the air like a magician doing a conjuring trick. "I'm sensing a mood."  

"Ah..." Bucky squirms in his seat, eyes finding the floor.   

"James is all bent out of shape about something he found today," Nat concedes playfully.  

Bucky meets her eyes and finds nothing but humor there. He sends a non-verbal 'thank you' in her direction.   

Clint looks to Bucky and asks, with full solemnity, "A gray pube?"  

Bucky feels his mouth drop open and he looks back and forth between Clint and Nat, nonplussed. Nat just smiles adoringly at Clint.   

"What?" Clint chuckles, as if he gets the joke.   

"You two scare the shit out of me." Bucky shakes his head as the two of them kiss.   

Pulling back from Clint's lips, Nat explains, "No, not a pube. James got a boner for a lost iPod he found on the B train."  

"Naaaaaat," Bucky groans, reaching for the bird-pillow so he can cover his face again.  

"Oh?" Clint raises an eyebrow.   

"Mhmmm." Nat nods. "You're actually sitting on it."   

Clint shifts around, groping around under himself for the iPod before pulling it up with a flourish. 

"Whoa, it's a _fossil,_ " Clint murmurs, looking the device over.  

Bucky pulls the pillow from his face to grin at Clint. "That's what I said."  

"Right before you got hard-on for it," Nat teases.   

"Like Joaquin," Clint says absently, eyes fixed on the little blue screen of the iPod as he scrolls through the menu.   

"What?" Bucky and Nat say in unison.  

"Phoenix -  _Her -_  that movie where he falls in love with the software program on his computer," Clint supplies. "Not that I can blame him, though, that computer had a sexy-ass voice." He leers outrageously at Nat and she grabs the pillow from Bucky's lap to hit him over the head with it.   

"I did not fall in love with the iPod," Bucky argues firmly before sheepishly explaining to Clint about the playlists and his speculations on the iPod's possible owner.   

"But you don't know anything about them," Clint reasons once Bucky has finished.   

"Thank you!" Nat exclaims. She gets up from the couch, depositing her laptop on the coffee table and making her way toward the kitchen.   

"You don't even know if it's a guy or a girl." Clint's eyebrows draw in. "Or neither."   

"You know, that's one of the perks of being bisexual – it doesn’t all hang on the question of gender." Bucky rolls his eyes at him. "That and the discount on shoes," he jokes.   

"Yeah, duh, what I mean is, you can tell fuck-all from a person's iPod. It could be that girl with the annoying voice that lives downstairs, or a teenager, or an elderly Chinese guy, or Carol from my office, or some dude who wears square-toed loafers."   

"Ew to the square-toed loafers. But, no, as if any of the superficial stuff matters, bar the underage thing -"   

"But ability to put together a list of songs does?"   

"Fair point," Bucky concedes. He lets out a long sigh. "I just... have a _feeling._ "   

"That means jack-shit, Buck. Now take your sad-sack self and your 'feelings' to your room, so Nat and I can have our own feelings all over each other and this couch," Clint orders him.   

Nat wanders back from the kitchen, wine bottle in hand, and lowers herself onto Clint's lap.   

"Okay fine, fine - I'm going." Bucky gets up, grabbing his bag and heading for his bedroom, making sure to scoop up the iPod in the process.   

"Wait, did you eat dinner?" Clint calls to him.   

Bucky looks back and sees that he and Nat are already horizontal on the couch. "Yes, Mother, I grabbed a bite at the hospital. G'night, you assholes. Have a grand time sucking-face." Bucky turns back down the hallway.   

Over his shoulder he hears Clint bellow, "Good. Night night, my Buck-a-roo!"   

Nat follows this with a shouted "Don't jerk-off to the audiobook selections - I'll be able to tell!"   

Bucky feels his ears redden and he does his best not to slam the door behind him.  

He takes a moment to survey his bedroom, sighing in relief at the sheer pleasure of being home. He flops onto the unmade bed.  

 _I love you so much,_ he tells it, _you soft, squishy goddess_.  

He has the best mattress in the world, an investment he made just before moving into this apartment with Natasha four years ago.   

The move had taken place not long after his accident and he'd bought the bed to congratulate himself on his progress in re-adjusting to life after the amputation - as proof that he could be comfortable, and _deserved_ to be comfortable, one arm or two. Some nights, lying on the forgiving and decadent softness, Bucky can almost believe that.  

Immediately following the accident, he had spent a full, non-functional year wallowing in a combination of self-pity and guilt while living with his parents. Then, slowly, the therapy had started to help and he was able to think forward again. He'd reconnected with Nat after a time, and hearing that she was interested in moving from Manhattan back to Brooklyn, he'd joined her, going in on a two-bedroom a reasonable distance from Prospect Park.   

Clint had shown up, quite literally, a little over two years past. Bucky had been watching a movie in the living room when Nat had walked in the front door, a toe-headed stranger trailing in behind her. Nat, wearing a bemused yet pleased expression that seemed to say 'I don't know where I picked this one up, but here we are,' had paused only briefly to make introductions before continuing on toward the kitchen.  

"Hey, man," Clint had greeted Bucky, sitting down beside him on the couch and reaching for a pretzel from the bowl on Bucky's lap, as if he'd been doing so every afternoon of his life.  

A few months later, Clint had moved in to Nat's bedroom. Bucky still has yet to get the story of how they met. Not knowing drives him absolutely crazy, as do most things about Nat and Clint in combination.  

 _That's an unholy alliance, if there ever was one._   

Sometimes Bucky is so grateful for the two of them his heart feels like it might expand by threes like the fucking Grinch.  

Bucky shuffles to the side of the bed and props himself into a sitting position, intent on taking a shower. His exhaustion returns to him in a wave and he sways slightly on the mattress.  

 _Okay,_ _morning shower_ _it is_.  

He stands and starts to undress, unpinning his sleeve and placing the tiny, silver dog - last year's Christmas gift from Clint - on his bookshelf with the rest of his collection.   

The pins had been Natasha's doing. Bucky had been using large safety pins for months, finally getting the hang of rolling and tacking-up his empty left sleeve one-handed. But one afternoon he had come home to a decorative, silver brooch pin in the shape of a skeletal human arm placed carefully on his dresser. Other pins had begun to appear soon after - funny ones and artful ones, all left for him on the dresser without ceremony or comment, as was Nat's way.  

He'd begun wearing a different pin everyday, buying some for himself at flea-markets and second-hand stores, until it had become a trademark habit; other friends had started contributing to his collection and even his mom had gifted him a few for his last couple birthdays.  

Bucky loves the pins, loves that they provide a way for him to add his individual stamp to a part of himself that had once felt so estranged, so irrevocably changed; to look over at the place where his arm should be and see, instead of empty space, a unique and deliberate slice of his personality.  

Nat sometimes has a way of understanding him better than he does himself.  

Bucky looks over the collection of pins, several favorites standing out to his eyes: an enameled daisy from Nat, a gold and silver turtle from his mom, a garishly bejeweled teddy-bear from his sister, a simple wire bow-and-arrow from Clint, an art deco rectangle he'd found at the Fort Greene Flea.   

He finishes removing his scrubs and undershirt, pulling on a pair of plaid pajama pants and flopping back down onto the bed. He grabs the iPod and looks it over carefully for clues as to its ownership, wondering if he'll be able to figure out a way to return it.  

 _And to, you know, m_ _aybe_ _m_ _eet the playlist guru._   

A sticker of some kind obscures most of the worn metal backing. Looking closer, Bucky sees that it isn't a sticker at all, but a small paper collage affixed with a large square of clear packing tape.  

It looks somewhat like a shield: concentric circles of red and white paper surround a central white star, directly encircled by a small ring of blue. Bucky can see that the bits of paper have been cut from magazines or newsprint. The white star has obviously been taken from a book page, the black lines of text making it appear pinstriped. He squints in the dim light, trying to make out the words on the star, before giving up and turning the device back over.  

Nat's comment about the audiobooks comes back to him and, curious, he checks through the menu to see if and what they are.  

There are only two books. The first is non-fiction about prisoners of war in WWII – _Jesus, that's depressing –_ and the second is _Middlesex_ by Jeffrey Eugenides.   

Bucky groans out loud and turns his head toward the bedside table where his own paperback copy of _Middlesex_ is resting, bookmark visibly protruding from a section toward the end. Seeing it, he groans again.  

Because he can admit that he might be a little overzealous in his enthusiasm for the playlists, but this? 

 _What are the odds that one of the two books on this thing is the same one I'm currently reading?_ _!_  

Bucky almost wants to run out and show Nat and Clint - _Look, you turds, m_ _y spidey-sense was on to something!_ _-_ but then he remembers what it's usually like to walk in on the two of them after hours, and stays put.   

He turns the iPod over and over in his hand. The age of the device itself argues for its owner being middle-aged or over.  

 _What young person goes a decade without updating their technology?_   

Some of the iPod's content argues for this conclusion too, he muses, thinking of the vast collection of Billie Holiday and the WWII non-fiction.  

 _At least the odds are good it isn't a teenager._  

 _But still,_ _Fleet Foxes_ _?_ _Hozier?_ _Future Islands?_ _It_ _can't possibly be a geriatric._ _Or if it is, they are hip as hell and I_ _'d love to meet them_ _anyway._  

Bucky sighs, not knowing what he's hoping for.  

 _For it to be someone close to my age? Someone nice and friendly and as amazing as their playlists?_  

 _Someone I could be friends with?_   

He feels pathetic and desperate, remembering what Nat and Clint had said.   

Remembering the other things Nat had said before Clint had arrived, his mood sours even further. He tries and fails to push the image of Brock from his brain as it comes swimming up.   

 _Ughhhh. Stop. Stop thinking. Go. To. Sleep._  

He places the iPod on the bedside table next to his stack of books and switches the light off. It's cold in the room, goosebumps pebbling the skin of his chest as a breeze drifts in through the open window; summer had stayed late this year, but Bucky still feels a pang of melancholy as he acknowledges the arrival of the autumn temperatures.  

He decides to leave the window open, opting to drag the blanket he keeps at the foot of the bed over himself instead. It's an old afghan of his grandmother's, crocheted from soft ochre-colored yarn. It smells like her: Earl Grey tea and cinnamon, with just a hint of mothballs. He pulls it up so the hem rests just under his nose and closes his eyes.   

He wants to retrieve the iPod and try out the 'bedtime' playlist – S _eriously, what adult still says 'bedtime?' That_ _'s fuckin' adorable_ _–_ but he doesn't have the energy.  

He lets his fatigue fill him like lead, weighting his limbs to the mattress, driving all thought of iPods and drunken kisses and self-doubt and bus tires out of his heavy head. He lets himself be dragged into sleep, the room silent around him.   

Thankfully he doesn't dream. 

 

\--- 

 

Bucky's alarm goes off the next morning at eight. He groans and stretches, scrubbing the fingers of his right hand along his scalp.

Monday and Tuesday are his days off from the reception desk of the Rehabilitation Medicine department at Mount Sinai, and today he's picking up a closing shift at his part-time job - a counter-service position at a quiet, Jewish bakery a few blocks from the apartment, one he's held with varying degrees of regularity since college.   

After a lengthy and invigorating shower he chooses a short-sleeve black button up and some questionably clean, black skinny jeans as his outfit. He smiles slightly to himself as he does up the buttons of the shirt one-handed, a trick that had taken him a long time to perfect. He pauses to consider his pin collection again, settling on a heavy silver one with a woven, Celtic design and several small, yellow stones. He tugs his hair into a half-up, half-down ponytail – another trick that had taken time and countless youtube videos to succeed with – and grabs his glasses and backpack before heading out into the hall.   

Shouting a goodbye to Nat and Clint, both presumably still entangled somewhere in the bowels of their bedroom, he makes his way out the door and down to the street.   

Trying not to feel obsessive, Bucky sticks his headphones in and starts the 'morning commute' playlist on the stranger's iPod as he walks. 'Frankie's Gun!' by The Felice Brothers is the first song to play and the cheerful tempo sets the pace for his stride.  

 _Okay, fuck it, these playlists are magic._   

A few hours later, he's taking his mid-shift break in his usual spot - a stool at the bakery's window counter, the perfect vantage point for people-watching - while he eats a snack. He is slowly working through a pile of poppy seed rugelach, humming 'Obvious Child' by Paul Simon in between bites.  

 _That song is going to be stuck in my head all. d_ _amn. d_ _ay. Thank you, stranger's iPod._    

The bakery's owner, Tim, allows whomever is behind the counter to pick the background music, and all morning Bucky has been tempted to plug the found iPod into the dock. But he's stopped himself, feeling as if that would be somehow disrespectful to whomever owns it.

Bucky already feels mildly guilty from listening to the playlists himself. It seems a bit... intrusive, like listening to someone's musical diary.   

And if listening to the playlists is akin to reading someone's diary, the least he can do is not plaster the pages around the city like promotional flyers; Bucky's not about to broadcast some stranger's personal music choices to a gaggle of elderly patrons and their chocolate babka.   

The thought of flyers makes Bucky recall the movie _Ame_ _lie_ and the way the love interest had taped up dozens of little posters in an attempt to find his dream girl.  

 _Should I make flyers_ _about_ _this thing?_   

He mulls the idea over. 

  

 _"_ _Found: Primitive technology harboring a truly fantastic music selection_   

 _Discovered_ _on a Brooklyn-bound B train on September 13th_   

 _If_ _yours please_ _call the number below with a description of the cute-ass little collage on the back_   

 ~~ _Reward not required_~~ _If you are as amazing as your bea_ _utifully crafted playlists, finder would like to politely request a coffee-date as compensation for the object's safe return_ _"_  

 

Reminded of the iPod's collage by these musings, Bucky takes the device out of his bag, flipping it over to re-examine the tiny artwork in the bright light from the window. As he looks he notices something etched into the metal underneath the transparent tape, partially obscured by the circle of red paper: the letters S-T.  

 _Hell yes! Is this thing engraved with the person's name?!_   

As carefully as he can manage, Bucky begins to peel back the taped-on collage. Sure enough, a name and – _Gotcha_ _!_ _-_ phone number is revealed, legibly inscribed on the buffed metal surface.   

 

 **Steven Grant Rogers**   

 **(718) 867 – 5309**   

 

 _Bingo._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been asked to clarify so here's a heads up for you guys: this fic will include initial Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter but Steve/Bucky will be endgame AND in fic breakups will be handled with respect and care! No Peggy Carters will be harmed in the making of this fic; neither she nor I would stand for it tbh. <3 
> 
> UPDATE: I'm on tumblr now, yo! Sadly all versions of turn_turn_turn were taken, so I went for the word-play (OR SHOULD I SAY BIRD-PLAY *cackling into an empty room*) of tern-tern-tern.tumblr.com. Come yell with/at me, please do.


	2. Track 2

Bucky doesn't call the number that night. Or the next day. Or the day after that.  

He's not holding the iPod hostage.  

 _I'm not. I'm definitely not._  

He's just become a little... attached. The playlists are too good. He just needs a chance to listen to each of them all the way through, at least once. Or maybe twice. He can't return the thing without hearing them all, he'd only regret it.  

And, okay, maybe he's a little nervous about potentially meeting the owner if he returns it. 

 _WHEN - WHEN I return it._  

The playlists are just so _magical_.  

 _Whoever made them has to be at least a little lovely - or_ _interesting_ _, interesting at the very least._  

Bucky knows that his nervous speculation is irrational and pathetic and reaching. But.  

 _It's just a bunch of songs, Barnes._  

_Fucking fantastic songs, compiled into near-perfect mini-soundtracks for my daily life. But still, just a bunch of songs._

_And a name._  

'Steven G. Rogers.' Not exactly a name to inspire a creative or even specific mental image, but Bucky likes the sound of it all the same.  

 _Is that weird? Yes. Yes it is. Get a grip, you fuckin' goon._  

Bucky doesn’t have a Facebook, so he can easily resist the temptation to creepily internet-stalk the name. Bucky _does_ have (a least a modicum of) pride, so he can easily resist the temptation to ask Nat or Clint to do it for him.  

In fact he's wary of bringing up the subject of the iPod or its owner with either of his roommates, considering their reactions the other night. Not that he's being defensive, or hiding it, or –  

O _h shit_ _-_  

He's sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through the 'evening run' playlist on the iPod and contemplating unearthing his running shoes from the jumbled mess of his closet, when Nat walks in, heading for the fridge. He tries to slide the iPod surreptitiously beneath one of his anatomy textbooks, splayed open on the table before him among a litter of hand-printed note cards.  

 _Alright, fine - I_ _'m fuckin_ _'_ _hiding it._  

Nat begins to rifle through the refrigerator's collection of leftover takeout boxes without acknowledging him. Bucky lets his shoulders slump in relief.  

Then she turns around, an egg-roll between her fingers and – _When did we last eat Chinese? -_ an eyebrow lifted sardonically in his direction.  

 _Shit._  

"What?" he asks her, feigning innocence.  

"' _What?'"_ she parrots back, doing a – _Fuckin_ _g_ _inaccurate_ _–_ impression of his wide-eyed attempt at guilelessness. "So you decided to keep that thing, huh?" 

"Ah, no. I'm gunna return it, I just haven't had a chance to -"  

"Mhmmm. And were you planning to return it after the common law marriage takes effect? Or were you and the Manic Pixie Macintosh going to head down to the courthouse for a license, instead?"  

"It's only been a few days, Nat."  

"Yeah and it takes all of five seconds to put a notice on Craigslist."  

Bucky ignores her, adding petulantly, "And 'Macintosh' is for the computers."  

"Yeah, well, 'Manic Pixie Apple Inc. product' didn't have the snarky ring I was looking for." She sits down across from him at the table, her expression impatient. "I'm still not seeing you posting a lost and found notice," she quips, gesturing pointedly with the egg-roll at his laptop, sitting closed on a stack of textbooks to his right.  

"Ah, I don't need to do that, actually." Bucky shifts in his seat. "There's a, ah, I found a phone number on the back of the thing," he mumbles, low.  

Nat's eye's narrow at him. "And _when_ did you find that number?" 

"Erm..." Bucky trails off, unable to meet her eye.  

"James" - her tone is firm, insistent - "Call the number. _Tonight_." She gets up, walking toward her bedroom without a backward glance. He hears her crunch down on the egg-roll again before the door shuts behind her.  

Bucky sighs. He knows she's right. She's always right. He should call.  

He doesn't.  

He doesn't go for a run either, deciding that he'll treat himself to an early night. He gets up from the table, shutting his textbook and organizing his note cards briefly before taking the iPod into his bedroom and climbing into bed. He has an early morning at the hospital tomorrow and a few extra hours sleep will be good for him. He pulls a set of headphones out of his bedside table, thinking music will help him relax into drowsiness.  

The 'bedtime' playlist is lovely: soothing and soft and almost distressingly sad in spots.

And romantic.   

In fact, most of the music on the iPod is romantic; whoever Steven G. Rogers is, he's got a hell of a taste for love songs.   

Bucky lets his mind drift with the music. He wishes he had someone in his bed. Someone to hold and to kiss and to whisper to. Someone to lie quiet with him and listen to the music. To be alone, but not alone.   

His mind conjures a vague image of the iPod's owner listening to this playlist, the one they created with care and intent: a non-specific male shape, laying in some other dark room, somewhere in this city.  

 _Presumably_ _male, with a name like 'Steven' - is he in Brooklyn too?_  

 _Shit. I bet he misses his music. Oh God, what if he has trouble falling asleep, and that's why he made this playlist? And here I've been holding it captive_ _for_ _days_ _. I'm such an ass._  

His mental image of Steve alters into a man, face drawn and tired, starting blankly at the ceiling and frantic for sleep. Bucky cringes and resolves to call the number tomorrow.  

The next song on the playlist is one he's never heard before. He is immediately entranced. He checks the song name on the iPod's screen ('Sweetest Kill' by Broken Social Scene) and makes a mental note, glad to see the playlist still has a dozen songs left to play.  

 _Okay, m_ _aybe I'll call_ _the day_ after _tomorrow..._   

The next song is 'Come to Me' by Otis Redding - one of Bucky's favorites. 

Suddenly another image of the unknown Steve pops in to Bucky's mind, but this time he isn't alone. Steve's indistinct shape is wrapped around another, nameless form; two people, holding close, letting a love song lull them to sleep. Bucky can't imagine the strangers' faces, but their closeness, their intimacy -  _t_ _hat_ he can picture in full, vivid Technicolor. The thought of it makes him ache.   

He can feel the empty space on the mattress beside himself, a gap he wishes he could fill. Suddenly the ceiling seems too far away. The darkness above him is a chasm, a vast space echoing with a silence that the music in his ears can barely dent.   

He pulls the earbuds out, wraps them gently around the iPod and places the bundle carefully on the bedside table. He turns over, facing the window.  

He knows he won't listen to that specific playlist again.  

 

\--- 

  

In the event, Bucky does call the number the next day.  

He takes a quick break near midday, heading to the CSM cafeteria for a snack.  

He sees that Marjorie is behind the counter and grins her way. Middle-aged with brassy hair tucked neatly under a hairnet and clad in a brightly patterned apron, Marjorie reminds Bucky of his Midwest-dwelling aunts. Catching his eye, she winks at him and immediately starts to assemble his usual (chocolate pudding with a healthy dollop of whipped cream), helpfully scooping the pudding into one of the heavy ceramic soup bowls as opposed to the standard plastic one, which will enable him to scrape up the last of it without having to hold the bowl between his knees.  

"Thanks, Marjorie." Bucky reaches to take the bowl from her.  

"Anytime, handsome," she responds warmly before turning to the next person in line.  

Bucky pays for his snack and picks a seat at a table near the window. He pulls out his e-reader and starts back in on his newest book,  _John Carter of Mars_ by Edgar Rice Burroughs. He's been on a pulp fiction kick lately.  

Looking up at one point, Bucky makes eye contact with a man sitting a few tables away. The man smiles at Bucky, showing the little gap between his front teeth, and holds up his own bowl to show Bucky the pile of red jello chunks within. Bucky huffs a laugh and salutes him – _What was his name again? Sam? Yeah, Sam -_ with a pudding-covered spoon before turning his eyes back to his book.  

Sam must work in the hospital as well. Bucky sees him in this cafeteria often, the periwinkle scrubs looking much better against Sam's brown skin than Bucky imagines they look on himself.  

He'd met Sam in line at the counter once; Bucky'd been daydreaming while Marjorie assembled his pudding bowl when a soft, amused voice behind him had drawled, "So you're Team Pudding, huh?"  

Bucky had turned to find a stranger offering him a friendly smile and a raised eyebrow. "I'm Team Jello, myself," the stranger had continued.  

"Let's hope it doesn't come to a fight," Bucky'd responded, raising his own eyebrow in turn. 

"Oh we'd keep it civil - I got nothing against pudding, man, it's just that jello is infinitely superior in every way." Another huge, gap-toothed smile.  

Bucky had simply lifted both eyebrows derisively, looking down at the stranger's jello, then his own pudding, and back again.  

"Don't you dare make a Bill Cosby joke, man," the stranger had warned him, face suddenly and comically serious behind his thin goatee.  

Bucky had answered with a grin. "Wouldn't dream of it."  

Remembering their teasing exchange, Bucky wonders if he should go ask to sit with Sam - strike up another conversation, maybe. Possibly make a new friend. Bucky doesn't have too many friends at the hospital, aside from Joan and a few of the residents that work in his department.  

 _It would be nice to have someone to sit with - a_ _side from John Carter._  

Out of the corner of his eye Bucky sees Sam get up from his table, placing his now empty bowl in one of the bus tubs.

 _Next time,_ Bucky thinks.  

Bucky glances down at his backpack, the bulge of the iPod in the front pocket seeming to stare mockingly back at him.  

Bucky toys with his iPhone for a few minutes, thinking about Nat and her Righteous Eyebrows and the fact that keeping found property when you know who it belongs to is probably, _technically_ theft, and is definitely a dick move. He pulls the iPod out of his bag, flipping it over and over in his hand as he hesitates. 

There's a chance the number won't work, anyhow; this Rogers guy might have changed his number in the (many) years since he got the iPod.  

Bucky punches the number from the back of the iPod into his phone. He stares at the screen for a few heartbeats, his thumb hovering over the green 'Call' button.  

 _Buck up, Barnes._  

 _Heh._  

He braces himself, feeling foolish and anxious and foolishly anxious, and then lets his thumb fall, pulling the phone to his ear as the call goes through.  

Bucky has been formulating a little speech ever since he found the phone number, but every unanswered ring seems to erase another chunk of it from his mind. His stomach tightens and he grits his teeth as his mind flails around in an attempt to compile coherent sentences.  

 _Shit. SHIT. God, please let me get the machine._  

A click on the other end and then a deep, male voice says, "Steve Rogers, here. I'm not able to come to the phone at the moment, but please leave your info and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." A few seconds of silence follow and then a perfunctory 'beep.'  

Simultaneously thrown by the commanding voice and overwhelmingly relieved to have gotten the machine after all, it takes Bucky several seconds to get with the program and start speaking.  

"Oh ah, hello! I'm, um, I'm calling for Steven Rogers?"  

 _Why are you phrasing that as a question? That's not_ _a_ _question._  

"He, I mean you? Ah, I found – I found his -  _your -_  iPod on the train. I mean I'm assuming it's yours, it has your name on it. And this phone number. So I figured I'd give it a call. Which is what I am doing, um, now. Ah. Yes. So I'd like to return it?"  

 _That's not a_ _questi_ _on_ _either, dummy._   

Bucky grimaces, wishing he still had a left hand so he could face-palm. "Yeah, I'd like to return it. So give this number a call and we'll arrange that. Oh and ah, my name is James. Okay - see ya." 

Bucky ends the call, slowly pushes his empty bowl to the other side of the table, and lays his forehead down on the table's surface. He briefly lifts his head and then lets it drop back down with a dull 'thunk.'  

 _Very suave and composed, Barnes. 10 out of 10 for effective_ _commun_ _ication skills._  

He's allowing himself a few self-indulgent groans into the counter top when his phone begins to ring, jarring him into silence. His head whips up, making his neck crick painfully, and he scrabbles for the phone, tapping the answer button on the unknown number and bringing it up to his ear. "Hello?" 

"Um, hi! This is Steve Rogers – I just got your call about my iPod. Thanks so much for getting a hold of me! Is this James?"  

Steve's baritone is so unexpectedly animated and friendly on the other end of the line that Bucky flounders a bit. "No - yes - I mean yes, this is James. Though I'm not sure why I left that name 'cause most people just call me 'Bucky,' my nickname. But yeah, I mean, James is still my name... too..." 

 _What. are. you. even. saying._  

"Yes - this is James," Bucky concludes, as definitively as he possibly can while literally dissolving into a puddle of embarrassed, scrub-clad goo. He gingerly returns his forehead to the table's surface with a sigh.  

Silence for a few seconds on the other end of the line, and then the deep voice returns: "Are you sure?" And Bucky can _hear_ the smirk forming on the guy's face.  

Bucky's embarrassment fades quickly into amused irritation. "YES, you fuckin' punk. This is James - and I have your iPod." 

"Well good, I'm glad you didn't manage to sell it in the thirty seconds since I got your call."  

 _What a snarky little fucker._  

"Yeah man, that was fast – do you screen all of your calls?" Bucky asks, trying to meet Steve's teasing tone.  

Steve chuckles dryly. "Yeah, mostly." His voice takes on a slightly sheepish edge as he continues, "I have a hard time saying no to telemarketers - I get stuck mumbling ineffectually while they ramble on, before I finally screw up the courage to hang up. And then I feel guilty about it for the rest of the day."  

Bucky feels himself smiling at the thought of that confident baritone reduced to self-conscious muttering when faced with Tyrone and his comprehensive cable packages. "Mhmm, well I'm glad I passed the test, otherwise I'd be stuck with this relic for good. Seriously, Rogers, how old is this thing? It's practically petrified." 

"Hey! Don't make fun of my girl, she's been with me a while but she hasn't given up yet. Plus, why shell out for a newer model when the one I have works just fine?" 

"I think you mean the one _I_ have, but I admire your devotion. Thrifty too - let me guess, despite the voice you are actually eighty-five and you reuse Ziplock bags like my bubbe?" 

"Close - I'm twenty-nine. And Tupperware only."  

Bucky is grinning fully now, enamored by Steve's cheekiness. "So this antique is a 'she,' huh? Like a boat or a deadly tropical storm?" He glances back down at the iPod, amused. "What's her name?" 

"Considerin' how disrespectful you are being regarding the lady's age, I don't think you deserve to know," Steve pouts down the line.  

Bucky's face is starting to hurt now. "Ethel? Gertrude? Madge?"  

Steve lets out an exasperated sigh and Bucky feels oddly pleased with himself. "Shut up, you dumb jerk. So, anyhow, where'd you find it?" Steve inquires.  

"On the B, between DeKalb and Atlantic." 

"Ah, damn, I should've guessed. Crazy that it made it into your hands after so long - I noticed it was missing at least a week ago. You'd think someone would've snatched it up sooner." 

Bucky feels his cheeks heat up in a blush, knowing he's been caught out. "Well, ah, I've actually been, um, borrowing it. For a few days."  

Silence for a couple of breaths and Bucky starts to panic, opening his mouth to start apologizing profusely when -  

"You _dick_. You were gunna steal her, weren't you? My beautiful Bess and all her sick beats." Steve is openly laughing at Bucky now. "What made you change your mind and call? You goddamn _thief_." 

Bucky splutters into the phone for a bit before he recovers himself. "Sick beats? Jesus, Steve, your grandpa is showing. I think you are missing the point - that being that I am calling _right now_ , completely willing to return darling 'Bess' - the nickname did not go unnoticed, by the way – to your irresponsible paws, and gettin' nothing but grief for my troubles. I could change my mind at any time, ya know."  

"Ohhh man, I'm sorry. I really am grateful," Steve relents, a pleading smile is clear in his voice. "So what's easiest for you – want my address so you can mail it? Or should we meet somewhere? I'm up for whatever."  

"Oh, um, yeah. We could meet?" Bucky tries not to let the eagerness show in his voice. "I mean, you're in Brooklyn, right? Judging by that accent you can't be too far outside the borough."  

"You know your own accent is pretty telling, ya big mook," Steve drawls comically. "Yeah, I'm in Brooklyn. What stop are you on the B? I'd be happy to come to you."  

Feeling his cheeks heat again, Bucky gives Steve the name of the two most convenient stops. Steve mentions a coffee shop across from one that he knows, and would that be an okay place to meet, say four in the afternoon tomorrow?  

Bucky smiles to himself, tamping down his irrational excitement at the prospect of meeting Steve in person and wondering what kind of face goes along with that rich voice and easy banter.

He can tell their conversation is winding down, but he can't resist teasing Steve just one more time: "Yeah, sure, I can meet tomorrow. Though you sure you don't want to make it an IHOP or something? I know how you geriatrics like the earlybird specials -"  

"Alright, asshole -" Steve starts. 

"And isn't four a little late for coffee? Might keep you up past sunset."  

"I'm hanging up." 

"Wait, wait, you gunna save this number in case we need to text?" 

"Oh! Yeah – actually can you just tell me it so I can write it down? I've got my notebook open right now."

"Can't you just save it from the call list?" 

There is silence from Steve's end again, and it feels promisingly embarrassed in nature. Bucky grins. "Wait. Steve. Steven. Did I just call you on a fuckin' landline? Oh my god, this is a landline. Who even still has one of those? Are you actually ninety? Did you have to star-six-nine me? Holy shit, this is too good."  

Steve heaves an impressively weary sigh on the other end. "Goodbye, Judgmental Stranger. I will TEXT you from my CELLPHONE if you'd just shut up and give me your goddamn number already, you bag of dicks."  

Bucky manages to squeak out his number in between giggles. "Okay Stevie, I'll be waitin' on your telegraph - save the carrier pigeon for next time, it's supposed to rain."  

"You are the worst," Steve grumbles, before hanging up.  

Bucky doesn't stop smiling all the way back up to his desk, and for a while after that. Suddenly tomorrow can't get here fast enough.  

 

\--- 

 

Today 11:24 AM  

Unknown Number: **H** **ello James STOP**  

Unknown Number: **T** **his is Steve Rogers STOP**  

Unknown Number: **I just wanted to say thanks again and that I'll see you this afternoon STOP**  

Unknown Number: **I'll be the very spry-looking nonagenarian in the Dodgers cap**  

Unknown Number: **STOP**  

 

Bucky smirks down at his phone.  

 _Damn, the_ _snark_ _is palpable. Why is that adorable? You have strange taste, Barnes._  

Bucky saves Steve's number, trying not to think too hard about whether that is a weird thing to do, considering he'll presumably only be meeting Steve this one time. He texts Steve back a quick confirmation before resuming his paperwork.  

An early day at the hospital means Bucky is back on the street by 3 PM, and he decides that after he changes out of his scrubs he'll to take his time and walk most of the way to the café.  

When he emerges from the changing room in his dark denim skinnies and a comfortably worn-looking grey tee, Joan – the lead receptionist and Bucky's boss - takes one look at him and starts to smirk in a worryingly knowing way.  

Bucky looks back at her and tries to resist running his hand over his hair yet again, smoothing it into the not-quite-effortless, effortless bun he'd just spent a good ten minutes putting up.  

"And just where are we off to today, Bucky? Looking pretty spiffy." The corner of Joan's mouth slants even further, deepening the dimple on her flawless, dark cheek.  

Bucky fidgets with his backpack strap, feeling suddenly trapped. "I don't know what you mean by 'spiffy,' which I am sure I have never looked in my _life_ , let alone today - and I am headed no place in particular. So you can just stop, you know, lookin' at me," he finishes, trying for 'nonchalant.'  

Which is maybe the same thing as 'spiffy.' Bucky isn't really sure.  

Joan, ignoring him, just keeps smirking at him all... smirky.   

Rachel comes from around the corner and toward the reception desk, a few colorful folders in her hand, and pauses when she notices Joan's look. She flicks her eyes toward Bucky and, taking in his outfit and awkward stance, her lips lift to one side in mirror image of Joan's.  

 _Oh God, it's catching._  

"Okay, whatever," Bucky huffs, feeling himself blush. "I'm leaving now – goodnight and see you tomorrow." He hoists his backpack up on his shoulder and starts moving towards the door to the stairwell and away from his colleagues and whatever those sniggers mean.  

He's almost through the door when he hears Joan's husky voice behind him saying, "I smell a _hot date_ coming on," followed by a comically high-pitched 'Oooooh' from Rachel.  

Bucky lets the door slam behind him and tries to tamp down his blush with every stair he descends.  

It's just a few minutes to four by the time Bucky hits the café's block, the sidewalk and street bustling with afternoon traffic and the light of the afternoon sun cheerful on his face. Heading for the entrance under a sign shaped like a giant mug, he passes a busker with a ratty violin trying a rather impressive go at 'La Vie en Rose' and a clipboard-bearing Greenpeace volunteer. Pushing the door in before holding it open for a pretty brunette with lush, purple-painted lips, Bucky pauses in front of the espresso bar. He casts his eyes around the room and fails to convince his nerves to settle.  

The café is fairly crowded; most of the tables are taken up by bulky laptops and notebooks and half-eaten muffins, and the chatter of the many patrons is loud and comforting in the air. Bucky peers toward the rear of the room, and there, sitting at a small table in the back, a beat up Dodgers baseball cap resting on the table's surface in front of him, is a guy that -  

 _Holy. Shit._  

_He's..._

Embarrassingly the first descriptor that comes to Bucky's mind is 'heartthrob.' More embarrassingly Bucky's own heart decides to verify the cheesy sentiment, constricting and then blooming against the wall of his chest.  

 _Yikes._  

This guy is the most beautiful man Bucky has ever seen. Possibly the most beautiful human, period.  

 _This dude could even give Natasha a run for her money._  

Which Bucky thinksis saying a lot, as he is sometimes convinced that Nat is actually a mythical creature disguised as a human woman - her ethereal gorgeousness intended to distract mere mortals such as himself into acting even more foolish than they normally do.  

 _What are those called - Succubi? Sirens?_  

 _No, not a Siren,_ _Nat can't sing for shit -_

Realizing that he is still standing rigidly in the front part of the café, all but ogling the blond stranger and searching vainly for proper mythology terms, Bucky gives himself a mental shake and forces his feet back into motion.  

 _Okay, seeing as the ability to_ _be cool_ _is beyond you, and there is no way this guy will be interested in you_ _, how about you just get through this interaction as quickly and efficiently as possible, yeah? No need to attempt 'charming,' just you know, say_ _some_ _words, give him the iPod, and leave_ _._ _Immediately._  

Bucky approaches the blond, noticing as he gets closer that the man is drawing something in the sketchbook open on his lap.  

 _Of course he draws, of course. Kill me._  

Allowing his eyes to flick back up toward the stranger's face, Bucky catches a grimace flicker across his expression, deep grooves briefly bracketing the sensitive mouth. Bucky notices too that the man's eyes look tired, something indefinably melancholy about the way the sandy eyebrows are drawn toward one another, forming a small wrinkle between them.  

The guy looks terribly sad.  

 _Hey,_ Bucky hears the voice inside his head say, _h_ _ey, that's not the way it_ _'s supposed to be._  

Bucky's feet quicken their pace of their own volition. About ten feet from the table, Bucky hears himself ask aloud, "Steve Rogers?"  

Hearing him, the stranger looks up, shutting the sketchbook closed in the same movement. His eyes meet Bucky's.  

For one strange instant, Bucky's world shrinks to the head of the pin. Every thought in his head is carved away, leaving behind just two words, as clear and definite as if they are carved on the inside of his skull:

 _Oh. Hello._  

The next instant the feeling of clarity is gone and the world comes rushing back in. The sounds of the café clatter around him: people in conversation, the clink of dishware, the hiss of the espresso machine behind the bar.

Across from him the man's –  _Steve's –_ face opens into a hundred-watt smile that makes Bucky feel as though he has to squint.    

"Hello," Steve says.

_Fuck._


	3. Track 3

"Hello."  

 _Fuck._  

 _W_ _hat the fuck._  

 _W_ _hat the actual fuck._  

 _O_ _kay, now would probably be a good time to start speaking out loud. And, you know, coherently._  

"Hey! Hi, I'm James - ah, Bucky. You know, the Thief turned Samaritan."   

"Hey." Steve sticks his dinner plate-sized hand out in greeting. "Seeing as you didn't actually steal it, I think we can call you Opportunist turned Samaritan. Unless you prefer Thief - it is a bit more, ah, roguish."

Steve is wearing khaki pants and a white t-shirt under a plaid button-down, like some Labrador Retriever-wrangling, fish-skinning dad from an L.L. Bean catalog.  

 _And pulling. it. off._  

Bucky reaches out and shakes Steve's hand, his palm warm and broad against Bucky's own.  

 _This dude is a fuckin' TANK._  

Letting go, Bucky forces himself not to preemptively hunch his left shoulder in defense, as is always his gut instinct when meeting new people. Steve's eyes flick down briefly to Bucky's empty t-shirt sleeve, but when he looks back up there is no awkwardness or hesitation in his gaze.   

"I think I recall you being the one to come up with 'thief,'" Bucky reminds him. "Plus, if I get to choose I'd go with something like 'The Brooklyn Music Bandit.'"   

"Heh _, Band_ -it," Steve giggles at Bucky's unintentional pun, then his face flushes in a rosy blush and he quickly pulls a hand up to his face to cover it. "Sorry, geesh, I kindof have a pun problem - just ignore me."   

 _Did he just giggle at his own joke?_   

The pink blush continues down Steve's throat and Bucky continues stare at him, feeling impossibly out of his depth and irritatingly shaky.   

 _Oh God._ _How is it possible for someone to be THIS adorable? How?_   

Trying to stifle his internal monologue from switching into nervous, all-caps shrieking, Bucky pulls his face into as normal a smile as he can manage – W _hich, given how hard_ _you are_ _trying at it, is probably not normal at all_ – and sits down in the chair across from Steve.   

"So um, here she is." Bucky pulls his backpack into his lap and fishes out the iPod from the front pocket, placing it on the empty tabletop between them. "Good as ah, new. 'New' being very relative in this instance."   

"Yeah, yeah," Steve mutters genially. "I've had quite enough of your ageist attitude, thank you." He smiles sweetly at Bucky, making Bucky want to sigh out loud.   

 _Or maybe swoon. Just a little bit._  

"Sorry about the little collage," Bucky blurts, indicating the back of the iPod. "I had to peel it off when I noticed the engraving - it was the only clue I had going. I ah, still have it if you want it? I stuck it on my notebook."   

"Oh! It's no problem, wasn't anything too special." Steve grins again, picking up the iPod from the table and flipping it over in his hand once, then twice. "Thank you so much for going out of your way to return this, I really appreciate it."   

"Oh, you know, it's, it's no big," Bucky croaks, voice climbing in pitch on the last few words before he coughs self-consciously to cover it.  

 _Oh Jesus_ _, do NOT let this guy's hotness reduce you to_ _pubescent squeaking. Try to retain a degree of composure, Barnes, I'm begging you._

"No big deal," he continues - _Thank G_ _od_ – more steadily. "Glad to be helpful. I know how important music can be – I certainly wouldn't want to loose mine. Or pass up an opportunity to ah, borrow someone else's," he finishes sheepishly, peering up at Steve to gauge his reaction.

Steve just smiles back at him, easy and somehow knowing, and Bucky's skin tingles lightly, all over.  

"I really loved your playlists," Bucky admits, finding himself wanting Steve to know. "You've got great taste."  

Steve blushes again, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck and looking down at the tabletop.  

 _Eyelashes. for. days._  

"Thanks," Steve manages after a few seconds of squirming. "I actually almost made you a mix as a thank you, but it um, felt a bit lame at the last minute." He smiles lopsidedly at Bucky. 

Shock and pleasure wash through Bucky in a warm wave. "Oh geeze, Rogers, I would've loved that."  

"Well, you'll have to settle for a slightly less personal but no less grateful 'thank you' coffee," Steve declares, the self-conscious blush still staining his cheeks. "What's your pleasure?" 

"Oh ah, just a cup of black drip is fine, thanks."  

"Man, that's a cheap ransom for Bess." Steve lays his palm down over the iPod, as if covering its ears, and whispers, "Let's not tell her, she'll get a complex," before grinning at Bucky conspiratorially.  

Bucky, helpless to resist grinning back, feels something small, important, and nameless detach itself inside him and start plummeting with no sign of stopping.  

_This fucking nerd._

_What am I supposed to do with you?_  

"Alright," Steve continues at normal volume, standing up. "One black coffee for the gentleman. The gentleman with Spartan tastes, who better not make fun of the excessive whip cream that may or may not end up on my own drink."  

"Wouldn't dream of it." 

Steve heads toward the counter and Bucky stares at his empty chair, trying to ground himself and calm his tense posture.  

 _Christ, B_ _arnes_ _, you must look like a fuckin' heart-eyed_ _emoji_ _. Cool it, you just met the guy._  

 _But seriously, what are the chances that THIS is the guy? THIS fucking guy._  

Bucky has to physically stop himself from turning around in his seat and staring at Steve in slack-jawed incredulity. He remembers the strange, irrationally hopeful musings he'd had about the iPods owner, and how the reality of Steve _exceeding_ his groundless optimism is just so... ?  

 _Did I seriously just win the meet-cute lottery? What the FUCK._  

 _He must be straight or something,_ _there's no way this situation is as perfect as it seems._  

Bucky's joyful astonishment is suddenly warring with his inherent pessimism and the whole thing is making him feel rather seasick. He isn't sure if he should ask Steve on a proper date, or if this whole thing is an elaborate prank. He isn't sure whether he wants to sit with Steve at this table for as long as is conceivably possible, or if he should bolt from the cafe this very second.  

He is still trying to figure out which compulsion is uppermost, his thighs tensing and relaxing as he contemplates standing up again and again, when Steve returns to the table with two fat, steaming mugs.  

Bucky raises his eyebrows at the fluffy tower of whip cream topping Steve's hot chocolate, dropping them quickly when he catches Steve's amused but quelling look. He takes a deep breath; the rich, nutty smell of his coffee and the sight of the little purl of steam rising from the cup are dually comforting and he finds himself abruptly at ease.  

_This is just a cup of coffee with a stranger._

_An incredibly, impractically attractive stranger who is witty, sarcastic, and adorable. But still._  

 _Just coffee._  

There's a few beats of comfortable silence between them as they take their first sips, and Bucky glances down at the notebook Steve had dropped on the seat of the third chair at their table. The black cover is adorned with another small collage in the same colors as the one from the back of the iPod, but this time forms the shape of a stylized wing. Bucky remembers the serious, melancholy expression on Steve's face when he'd first seen him and wonders if whatever Steve had been drawing had been the thing to put it there.  

"Sorry if I interrupted you before," Bucky says, gesturing to the notebook with his elbow. 

"Oh! Not at all - just doodling to pass the time." Steve's face scrunches briefly as though remembering something unfortunate, and Bucky instantly finds himself desperate to replace Steve's expression with a smile.  

"Honestly I'm surprised you didn't get stuck outside listening to the Greenpeace guy on the corner," Bucky jokes feebly, recalling Steve's admission on the phone about resisting telemarketing speeches.  

Steve lets out a dry chuckle. "You know I almost did – I pretended to be on the phone." 

"Ah, good trick. Who were you pretending to talk to?"  

"Nobody - I just stuttered through 'peas-and-carrots' several times and walked as fast as I could."  

Bucky laughs loudly, charmed at the mental image provided by Steve's words. "So when you aren't struggling to avoid conversations with strangers, what do you do?" Bucky asks him, trying not to wince at how boring and vague that question really is.  

"Well, with the remaining few hours in the day I run a little graphic design firm... of one... out of my apartment." Steve laughs and shrugs. "It's nothing special really, just some freelance web design, logos, labels, signage. A mural or two, here and there." 

 _Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_ _._  

 _"_ I also do some teaching at a public college in Queens - Art History, mostly. A little volunteer tutoring." 

 _Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_ _._  

"That's really cool, man," Bucky responds, rather lamely.  

"Yeah, I like it. What about yourself? Any hobbies besides availing yourself to strangers' music libraries you find on public transportation?" Steve smirks at Bucky over the rim of his mug, his derisive look slightly spoiled by the smudge of whip cream now stuck to the tip of his nose.  

 _UGHHHHHHHHHHHHH._   

"I work over at Mount Sanai, at the reception desk in Physical Rehabilitation." Again Bucky stops himself from hunching his left shoulder, hurrying on, "I also do a few shifts as a barista-extraordinaire at a bakery, which facilitates my coconut macaroon obsession – reaching competition level, by now – and I'm ah, studying a bit. Taking some night classes, hoping to get certified to do a bit more at the hospital than push paper. Someday, maybe." He looks down at the table for a second, feeling oddly nervous.  

When he catches Steve's eye again, the interested look on his face warms Bucky, while also making him feel bashful and shifty.  

"Competition level, huh?" Steve inquires, and Bucky is grateful to him for picking the most obviously innocuous tidbit out of Bucky's run-through.  

"Oh yeah - hoping to qualify for nationals this season."  

"I wish you the best of luck." 

"Thank you kindly."  

The comfortable silence re-situates itself as they finish their respective drinks. Bucky steals glances at Steve's improbably handsome face and wonders at the strange, immediate ease between them. It's feels promising and simple and wonderful.  

_I mean really, what are the chances? This guy?_

Bucky is opening his mouth with the intent to actually ask Steve if he wants to grab a bite to eat – _Alright_ _Barnes, just do it or you'll regret it forever, or worse Nat will find out and_ _garrote you on grounds of being a_ _complete wuss_ – when Steve starts, "Well, it was really great to meet you, James slash Bucky, and thanks again for returning Bess – one coffee really isn't enough compensation, truly -" 

 _A_ _date. A date would be more than adequate compensation. C'mon Barnes, just ASK -_  

"-but I've got to get going, - "  

_Do it do it do it do it -_

"Oh!" Bucky scrambles for his courage, he and Steve speaking over each other and standing up from their chairs. "It's – I – um – yeah it was great to meet  -"  

" - I'm meeting my girlfriend for dinner, and she is oddly fixated on punctuality even after six years of rampant tardiness on my end, so."  

"-you too."  

Steve smiles at him again and Bucky feels frozen in place.  

 _Shit._  

_I fuckin' knew it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, this is my first fic and *blushes furiously* you guys are just the BEST and *toes ground awkwardly* thank you so, so much for reading and commenting you absolutely lovely people. 
> 
> <3


	4. Track 4

"Well, it was really great to meet you, James slash Bucky," Steve says. "Thanks again for returning Bess – one coffee really isn't enough compensation, truly - but I've got to get going. I'm meeting my girlfriend for dinner, and she is oddly fixated on punctuality even after six years of rampant tardiness on my end, so."  

"It's – I – um – yeah, it was great to meet you too," Bucky manages. 

_Okay, so he's got a girlfriend. That’s fine, totally fine. You just met this guy - his lack of availability should not be devastating._

_And i_ _t isn't! It is totally. f_ _ine._  

 _O_ _kay maybe it's_ _a little crushing_ _, I mean look at him._  

_S_ _peaking of looking, he is still staring at you so it would probably be best to continue speaking like functioning human being. Now._

"Yeah, so, um. Have fun with Bess, and take care. Thanks for the coffee." 

"Like I said, wish it could have been more." Steve's smile is easy.  

 _Dude. You got no idea._  

"Bye," Bucky sputters, hoping his irrational regrets aren't showing on his face.  

"See ya!" Steve shoots him one last grin.

Bucky watches Steve place his mug in the bus bucket before walking out, and sits back down to stare blankly into the little pool of cold coffee left at the bottom of his mug.

His distorted, slightly oily reflection looks back up at him.  

 _Well, that was interesting._  

The slight buzzing between his ears caused by Steve's presence dissipates and the details of the room around him finally start to filter in to Bucky's brain, mundane elements completely at odds with how momentous the past half and hour had felt: the slightly burnt smells of coffee beans and cinnamon, the Lichtenstein-esque mural on the back wall, the scruffy brown service dog sleeping near the feet of a woman two tables over, the lyrics of the music radiating from the speaker in the corner.

"… It's been three years since I'm knockin' on your door / And I still can knock some more..."

 _Good_ _grief, Bob._  

He leaves the cafe, deciding that the walk back to the apartment will do him good. He pulls out his phone and earbuds and puts on some Drake, indulging in a little self-pity.  

 _Hey, at least you aren't listening to Patsy Cline._  

He's trying to focus on the music but instead finds himself considering the series of events in the past few days – _O_ _r months, or years, or_ _every move I've ever made in the twenty-eight years I've been alive_ \- that have lead him to this present moment.  

 _Or, you know, something slightly LESS dramatic._  

 _But seriously - what??_  

 _You find an iPod on the train._ _Y_ _ou find some amazing music on it, causing you to daydream a crazy little fantasy about finding the person it belongs to. You actually_ do _manage track down this person, and your fantasy is miraculously_ _ful_ _filled_ _in the form of a sarcastic-as-fuck, slightly_ _awkward_ _underwear_ _model/graphic-fucking-designer who volunteer-_ _tutors art students in Queens._  

_And he isn't available._

Bucky isn't sure what the universe is trying to communicate here. Is it a slap in the face?  

 _First of all - ouch. Second of all - that’s a little harsh for a guy who already lost an arm._  

Is it an encouraging push, telling him to get back out there in terms of his romantic life? A 'look what's out here waiting for you?' 

 _Doubtful. I mean, how many_ _devastatingly_ _attractive, bad-pun-obsessed artists with impeccable taste in music can there possibly BE_ _in a reachable distance?_  

It's safe to say Bucky is more than a little puzzled.  

Suddenly he recalls lying in bed a few nights before, idly imagining the iPod's owner somewhere across town in his own bed. Bucky's glad he hadn't known then what Steve looks like, or his innocent daydreaming would have gotten extremely inappropriate, extremely quickly. He feels himself blush all the way to his hairline at the thought.  

 _Well, there's that seed planted._  

 _STOP. So creepy, Barnes - Steve would be so weirded out if he knew that his iPod had been in the hands of such a total pervert._  

Then again Bucky figures that Steve, who is a total stranger, could very well be completely pervy himself.  

 _And there's that seed planted too._  

 _UGH._  

Bucky is still pondering his dire circumstances as he reaches his apartment building and mounts the stairs. He fumbles for a bit with his keys, deciding that his impulse to lie face-down on the carpet and groan for several hours is a little too self-indulgent for a weekday, and that he'll settle for a beer and an episode of a sitcom before he starts studying.  

The door swings open and he finds himself face to face with Nat, who is standing just inside the threshold, eating mint chocolate ice cream straight out of the carton with a soup spoon.  

 _Oh_ _fuckity_ _fuck._   

"Where have you been?" she questions around a large spoonful, the words coming out mostly in slurred vowels as a result.  

Nat had already been in bed by the time Bucky had arrived home from his shift last night, thus he hadn't had the chance to fill her in on his phone call with Steve and the subsequent plans to meet up with him.  

In all honesty he hadn't been too motivated to communicate the plan to her. Not that he would have  _avoided_ telling her, exactly - he just hadn't been eager to face her knowing looks or the self-examination they would have triggered.  

In retrospect a deeper inspection of his hopeful expectations probably would have been helpful.  

 _Too late now._  

"Just ah, returning the iPod," he responds, trying valiantly to maintain eye-contact.  

"Oh really?" Nat licks the spoon clean with a slurp. Her expectant expression has a touch of danger in it and Bucky isn't sure how best to proceed.  

 _Volunteer enough_ _ammo for teasing right off the bat, so_ _she ultimately lets the rest slide? Or keep quiet and let her wheedle it_ _out of you via painfully intrusive questions before she_ _finally_ _gets bored and gives up?_  

Bucky knows there is a little bit of a 'cat versus catnip mouse' element in his relationship with Natasha, and he knows exactly which end of it he is on.  

He sighs, deciding to jump right in. "Yeah, got a hold of the guy yesterday, met up with him for coffee a little while ago. It was ah, interesting. He was interesting." 

"Did he live up to your overly-saccharine imagination?" Nat asks.

 _Annnnnd_ _straight for the throat._  

"He topped it, actually," Bucky admits. "By several magnitudes." 

"No shit? What did he look like?" 

"Like a wet dream with a day job as a summer camp counselor."  

"Elaborate." 

"Incredibly sexy and built but entirely unaffected - kind of dorky? Very 'Superhuman Next Door.' He was wearing khakis. He had _freckles_. It was... a lot to take in." 

Nat gives him a considering look. "Shoes?" 

"Forgot to look." 

There's enough incredulity on Nat's face following this response that Bucky has to wonder just how often he makes note of footwear when describing people.  

"So if he was so spectacular why aren't you holed up somewhere with his dick in your mouth?" Nat demands. 

"Geeze, Nat, you gotta be so crude?"   

"Sorry. So why aren't you down at the malt shop, making doe eyes at each other over a chocolate egg cream?"   

Bucky sighs. "I hate you. He's ah, he's got a girlfriend."  

"Oh." Nat goes quiet for a second, looking at Bucky with a bit of concern tucked into the corners of her eyes. Bucky hates it.  

"Yeah, well, no biggie." He forces a shrug. "Fish in the sea, yadda yadda."  

"True. You should take this as a sign that you should wade back into the dating pool, or the single-guy sea, or yadda yadda." 

"I was thinking that, actually." 

"Good, James. Plus, nothing lasts forever - maybe you'll run into Mr. Music again someday, when he's unattached. Unattached and ready to be snapped up by your hopeless-yet-adorable self." Nat reaches up to smack a sweet and minty kiss on his cheek before walking towards the kitchen.  

Bucky drops his bag on the floor and toes off his shoes, feeling the slightly sticky ghost of Nat's lips and wishing he could hope for her words to come true.  

He doubts he'll see Steve again. 

(If he doesn't delete Steve's number from his phone, though, that's his business.) 

 

\--- 

 

A week later, Bucky is headed to the hospital on a crowded mid-morning train. He's standing with his hand on the bar and lamenting for the seventh time in as many days that he hadn't thought to save Steve's amazing playlists to his own library.  

 _I could really use a musical pick-me-up right now._  

He's busy playing his favorite metro commuter game, Glare Murderously at Rude Assholes Taking Up Unnecessary Space, and directing his efforts at the man sitting to his right with his legs spread comically wide, when the train staggers into another station. The mass of people in his car shifts as a few individuals exit, and there, at the other end of the compartment, the sight of him emerging abruptly from behind a group of suit-clad businessmen like a light in the gloom, is Steve.  

 _Oh shit._  

 _Christ, is this guy_ _gunna_ _be like a bad penny for me now?_  

As if somehow alerted to his presence, Steve turns suddenly and locks eyes with Bucky. Bucky's brain shorts out for a second or two. A smile blooms on Steve's face, genuine and heart stopping.  

 _Or he is the luckiest penny ever minted. Jesus Christ._  

The car having cleared out a decent amount, Steve is able to shuffle down to Bucky's end with little trouble. Bucky watches him approach, feeling simultaneously hunted and electrified.  

"Hey, Rogers."  

"Hey, you! I was wondering if we'd run in to each other on here," Steve greets him, the unbearably beautiful grin still fixed on his face. 

The part of Bucky that is still an overly excitable tween ( _He was wondering about me??!_ ) wars briefly with the part that sounds a lot like Nat ( _Stay calm, idiot - so he was wondering, it doesn’t mean anything_ ).  

Steve continues, "How many times do you think we've been on the same train before?"  

"Oh, I dunno, I think I would have remembered seeing you," Bucky blurts before he can stop himself.  

 _Oh God._  

"You're very... tall," he adds in a rather lame effort to save face.  

Steve just smiles blandly in response. Bucky notices a faint pink tinge starting to stain his pale cheeks.  

 _Wait, what?_  

"So where are you headed?" Steve inquires, interrupting Bucky's appraisal of Steve's blush. 

"The hospital," Bucky indicates his scrubs with a tip of his chin. "Work. You?" 

"Headed downtown to check out a drafting table some guy advertised on Craigslist - definitely not going to take it back on here though, it's packed today." 

"Yeah, and you don't want to be the JERK taking up a bunch of EXTRA SPACE on public transportation," Bucky offers, letting his volume rise a little bit and hoping the guy on the bench next to them – _W_ _ho is still sitting with his_ _knees wide open, the fuckin' dick_ – will hear.  

Steve glances down at the man's legs before winking conspiratorially at Bucky and shifting forward, pressing his shins against the guy's right knee and forcing the dude's leg in a few inches.  

 _Oh, I like your style, Rogers_ , Bucky thinks. He grins back at Steve and follows suit, crowding in on the man's left knee. 

After a few seconds the man lets out an irritated huff and closes his legs all the way.  

 _Success!_  

Steve and Bucky share congratulatory smirks as the train continues rattling down the track.  

They trade a bit more small talk and Bucky finds that the buzzing-head feeling he had felt sitting across from Steve in the cafe has returned with bells on. He casts his eyes around the car, trying to hold on to the details of their surroundings, as if they will anchor him from the pull of Steve's allure.  

It doesn't work; the only details Bucky seems capable of processing are Steve's. He notices the way Steve's hair shines golden even in the dingy light of the train, the spidery laugh-lines around Steve's eyes, the expressiveness of Steve's mouth.  

 _Yikes._  

The train sways into another stop and Steve makes his way toward the door, looking back over his shoulder at Bucky with a flash of teeth and a shouted "See you around, James!"  

From the platform the sound of salsa music blasting from a boom box pushes into the car and into Bucky's ears. His own weak 'Goodbye' is lost in the cacophony and he watches Steve's back retreating out of sight for the second and probably last time, feeling oddly bereft.  

 _Here and then gone again, like a fuckin' comet._  

 _See_ _ya_ _, sweetheart._  

 

\--- 

 

The next Wednesday Bucky is twirling around in his office chair, a bowl of fruit salad in his lap, when his phone vibrates four times in succession on the desk beside him. He reaches out to stop his rotation, trying to avoid stabbing his monitor with the plastic fork he's holding, and peers at his phone screen.   

The cantaloupe he'd just swallowed threatens to make a undignified reappearance as he sees the notification: 4 messages from Steve Rogers.   

He slides the unlock button, swallowing thickly.   

 

Today 10:45 AM  

Steve:  **H** **ey James/Bucky/** **Ipod** **Thie** **f** **! I hope this isn't too out of the blue or strange or anything, but**    

Steve:  **A** **few of my friends are in a band and they are having their first major gig at a venue in town this week**   

Steve:  **A** **nd we are trying to get as many people in the** **crowd as possible, so I thought I'd invite you as a fellow music enthusiast and Brooklynite.**  

Steve:  **Th** **e higher the headcount the better, so bring as many dates as you can manage :)**   

 

The cantaloupe does a few kick-flips in his esophagus – _He must have_ _saved your number too! Huzzah!_ - and Bucky contemplates how quickly he can respond without seeming too eager.   

 _Ten seconds? Yeah, that works._   

 

Me: hey punk/geezer/ungrateful dickbag   

Me: id be honored to be another face in the crowd   

Me: what time/place should me and my harem roll in    

Steve: **A** **wesome! It's this F** **riday** **at a bar called The Dive – you know it? Show starts at 8 PM**

Me: I do actually   

Me: sounds great. pretty positive I can make it   

Me: ill wrangle up a few friends too  

Steve: **P** **erfect.**  

Steve: **A** **nd coercion of** **audience members aside,** **they are actually really great.**  

Steve: **T** **hey've got a whole garage/punk thing happening**   

Steve: **L** **ots of Talking Heads covers**  

Steve: **A** **nd some eccentric facial hair situations**  

Me: fantastic.

Me: see you then  

 

 _Well._  

_Maybe we'll be friends?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patsy Cline is, in fact, the best woe-is-me music. A+ depressing lyrics done up in jaunty, yodeling pop-country style. 
> 
> The lyrics "...It's been three years since I'm knockin' on your door / And I still can knock some more..." are from 'Waiting in Vain' by Bob Marley & The Wailers. The song is totally, totally the universe mocking him, Bucky is sure of it. 
> 
> *more blushing* Thanks for reading, lovely ones! 
> 
>  
> 
> Sidebar: the idea of Bucky self-indulgently groaning into the carpet reminded me of When Harry Met Sally and OMG, you guys.  
> Has someone done that yet? When Harry Met Sally!AU? You GUYS.  
> With awkwardly charming skinny!Steve and romantic-pretending-to-be-a-cynic player!Bucky who hate each other at first meeting but manage to keep running into one another until they eventually become best friends and then fall in love??  
> This a thing somewhere, right? Has someone written this or do I have to?  
> 'Cause dudes, just think about this:  
> \- every chapter starting with two of their coupled-up friends telling their own 'how we got together' stories  
> \- banter, so much banter  
> \- the fake O scene, obviously. I mean, really, making a public spectacle out of himself to prove a point? So Steve. (Bonus points if during the performance he accidentally says Bucky's name once, then proceeds to feel really awkward about it later but refuses to acknowledge it because, you know, pining. Meanwhile Bucky is just '......' because it's difficult to form coherent sentences when all the blood has left your brain.)  
> \- hella pining  
> \- Bucky ruining perfectly good New Years Eve parties with declarative speeches about Love and Sandwiches.  
> \- Double Date Disaster sequence with Steve bringing Sam for Bucky and Bucky bringing Nat for Steve, Nat and Sam immediately making eye contact across the table and managing to convey in a conversation of eyebrow movements "Get a load of these two lovesick, deflecting losers, we should ditch them and get hot dogs instead," wherein they do and then proceed to fall in love with each other instead. (And at some point the wagon-wheel coffee table scene happens, except with something decorative/highly dangerous of Nat's and with Sam all "Hell no is that coming into this apartment, I refuse to be afraid of accidental disembowelment in my own home" and Nat is just "Fine, Wilson, but we are definitely tossing your tacky, cartoon bird sheets" and Sam is "What! Those are classy! They're from Potterybarn!") 
> 
> And now I'm picturing hipster teeny Steve in some version of the bowler hat and polka-dot shirt outfit (you know the one I'm talking about), and someone needs to get on this, stat. 
> 
> I have such a weakness for romcoms (duh, I mean what the hell am I writing here) and early 90s Meg Ryan it's just... somebody stop me before I start on Sleepless in Seattle (sad, widowed dad Steve gets tricked into going on a radio show by spunky daughter America? Slightly-neurotic journalist Bucky who hears the show and falls in love with them instantly?? Oh gosh.).
> 
> *Sidebar closed*


	5. Track 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have officially traveled from Meet Cute Township to the outskirts of the Barnes State Pine Forest - where to next??

Bucky shows up to the bar on Friday night with Nat and Clint in tow, all geared up and ready to make a go of being friends with Steve.  

The tumbler of whiskey he'd had before leaving the apartment is helping.  

 _Friends. I can do 'friends,'_ Bucky thinks. 

He isn't thinking about the sparks he'd felt upon meeting Steve - the first twitch of romantic interest he's experienced since Brock. He isn't thinking about the happenstance that had led to their meeting, of how it feels a little like fate, or how excited he's been at the prospect of being in the same room with Steve again. He isn’t thinking about how charming Steve is and he _definitely_ isn't thinking about how crazy blue Steve's eyes are; how they remind Bucky of cloudless skies, and the African Violets on Rachel's desk, and the soft, inner surfaces of the mussel shells he used to collect while on vacation with his family in Maine, and a particular quilt of his grandmother's, and a few other equally and mortifyingly cheesy things.  

He definitely isn't.  

 _But they really are, like, super_ _blue._  

Bucky needs another drink.  

The bar is packed to the brim with people; Steve's tactics of persuasion were obviously very successful.  

 _Not at all_ _surprising_ _, really. I'd probably follow that kid anywhere._

Bucky scans the crowd and shifts his shoulders nervously. He's wearing a faded chambray button down with a pair of dark, straight-leg jeans.  

 _I don't_ _care what people say about Canadian tuxedos, I_ _make_ _it work._  

His left sleeve is tacked up with a brass pin in the shape of a puzzle piece. He'd had Nat help him roll the sleeve up, wanting it to look as neat as possible. She'd stayed quiet while she did it, but there was a smile hiding in the corner of her mouth that had made Bucky feel twitchy.  

He feels the hard circle of the CD in his back pocket as they move further into the bar; Bucky had noticed while he'd had it that Steve's iPod had been completely lacking in anything by Nina Simone – _A complete travesty, in my_ _op_ _inion_ – and had taken it upon himself to burn Steve a copy of the _Nina Simone Sings the Blues_ album. He'd talked himself in and out of actually bringing the CD several thousand times before ultimately deciding that it wasn't anything more than he'd do for a friend, so why not? 

 _It's a completely platonic gift. Not a 'gift,' even, it's totally essential – everybody needs Nina. I'm just correcting a musical_ _oversight._

 _100% friendly activity._  

 _You're a horrible l_ _iar, Barnes._  

He's reaching up to tuck some loose hair back behind his ear when he spots Steve pushing through the crush of bodies, headed in their direction.  

"Hey!" Steve exclaims, pulling up in front of Bucky and Nat, Clint having already disappeared into the throng.  

"Hey," Bucky responds, weakly. "Steve this is Natasha, Nat this is Steve. Our friend Clint came too, he's here... somewhere." 

"Hi Steve," Nat greets him. "I've heard a lot about you." 

 _Natttttt_ _whyyyyyy_ _._  

"Have you?" Steve's eyes light up impishly.  

"Something, amazing music, something, something," Nat muses. "It was mostly complimentary, I know that."  

Bucky tries to glare a hole into the side of her head, with disappointing results. 

"Mostly? Well, I'll take it. I'm glad you guys came! I wasn't actually sure this many people would." Steve looks happily around the room.  

"Yeah, geesh, are all these people your friends?" Bucky asks, eager to move the conversation along to safer territory.  

"Not all – the band invited most of them. I actually think about thirty-percent of these people are Dugan's rugby teammates." 

"I'm not going to complain," Nat declares with a playful smirk, eyeing the exceedingly muscular brunette to Steve's left. 

"What about Clint?" Bucky questions.  

"You kidding? He's probably enjoying it just as much as I am. I'm going to look for him – play nice, boys." She pushes past Bucky in the direction of the bar, leaving him with Steve.  

Bucky is opening his mouth to say who-knows-what when a voice cuts him off.  

"Pudding Man!"  

Bucky turns to find Sam from the hospital cafeteria, grinning his adorable, gap-toothed grin right at Bucky.  

"Hey, dude! Geeze, you eat the same snack every lunch break for two years and suddenly you're 'Pudding Man,'" Bucky chuckles, smiling back at Sam. "What the hell are you doing here?" 

"Steve tempted me with offers of free beer, which he still hasn't made good on. You?" Sam raises his eyebrows.  

"Something similar. You two know each other?" 

"Sam is my roommate," Steve offers, looking back and forth between Sam and Bucky. "How do _you_ two know each other?" 

"Wait, wait, wait – _roommate_? After all we been through, Steve, and that's the only descriptor you are giving me? Cold," Sam cuts in before addressing Bucky and Steve in turn, "Steve is my very ungrateful and rude best friend, and Bucky here is a work acquaintance with bad tastes in dessert. How do _you_ two know each other?"  

"I found his iPod on the train," Bucky explains simply. 

"Wait, you're the iPod guy? Man, thank God for you – Steve was a mess when he'd thought it was lost for good. He was moping around the apartment, dragging his useless headphones behind him and weeping."  

"I did no such thing," Steve contends. "I _was_ really glad to get it back, though." Steve smiles at Bucky and Bucky feels a jolt behind his belly button.  

 _Take it easy, Barnes. You can't keep flinching_ _every time_ _he so much as looks at you._

 _Friends, remember?_  

"Roommate, you gunna buy me that beer or what?" Sam turns to Steve.  

"Yeah, I'm gunna – least I can do for my Very Best and Completely Amazing pal." 

"That's more like it." 

"Bucky, you want anything?" Steve asks him as he and Sam start to turn towards the bar.  

It's the first time Steve has addressed him with his nickname out loud and in result Bucky starts to feel a little feverish.  

"Oh! Sure, I'll take a beer if you wouldn't mind – or I can come with - " 

"No problem, I'll grab you one!"  

Steve and Sam move off. Bucky is surveying the room when Clint materializes suddenly at his elbow, a drink with two umbrellas and a crazy-straw in his hand.  

"Hot damn, that is an attractive dude," Clint whistles before taking a sip from his straw, staring after Steve and Sam.  

"Which one?" Bucky asks him, making sure to angle his face directly at Clint, knowing that in a room this loud Clint must be relying mostly on lip-reading for conversation.  

"Both, definitely both. Your boy is the tall, Paul Newman-looking one, yeah?"  

"He's not my – and he's definitely more Robert Redford, if anything -" 

"Yeah, whatever, he's hot. You sure he's got a girlfriend? He was looking at you all dopey," Clint affirms, staring at Bucky speculatively.  

 _What._  

"He was _not_. And yeah, I'm sure – six-year girlfriend, he said." 

"Ouch." 

"Yeah, well whatever," Bucky murmurs, as casually as he can.  

 _Plus, he's so far out of my league it would probably_ _interest_ _Jules Verne._  

Bucky relays this thought to Clint, who just looks back at him calmly before reaching out to grab Bucky's chin, his fingers squishing Bucky's cheeks in, and saying, "You are so fucking clueless, babe." He melts back into the crowd, presumably to go plaster himself to Nat for the rest of the night.  

Bucky stares after him, nonplussed.  

Steve and Sam return a few minutes later, Steve handing Bucky a glass of dark beer, condensation glimmering on its sides. Sam and Bucky strike up a conversation about the hospital, comparing notes on the coworkers they know in common. Sam, who is doing his residency in Orthopedic Surgery, turns out to know Rachel from before she moved over to Rehabilitation. 

"That's a great department, man," Sam asserts. "Got some really talented people working over there." 

"Yeah, they do a wonderful job." Bucky shrugs his shoulders.  

"Don't you mean 'we?'" Sam asks him.  

Bucky laughs, a little ruefully. "Well, I'm just a paper-pusher. Not that that isn't an important job," he adds hastily, thinking of the stone-cold look of disapproval Joan would give him if she heard that. "But it's, you know, strictly clerical work. I feel like a sham wearing the scrubs sometimes, actually, but they make us - for 'continuity' or something. But I'm hoping to do some more hands on – or _hand_ on, hah – stuff in the future. I'm back in school now, actually, part-time anyway."  

"Hey, that's awesome, dude! As a surgical resident I'm sure I don't need to tell you how in favor I am of the hands-on aspects of medicine - it's great, you'll love it." 

"I think I'll prefer something a little less gory than what you guys do, but I'm looking forward to it, yeah." Bucky smiles at Sam. 

"Cool, cool, let me know if you ever need help setting up clinical hours or whatever." 

"Thanks, man." 

"Watch out, Bucky, Dracula here is obsessed with broken bones," Steve butts in. "He'll probably make you touch one if you hang out with him at work."  

"Oh did you get tired of us ignoring you, Steve?" Sam raises his eyebrows at Steve in a knowing smirk. "I am not _obsessed_. I have a healthy interest in my job, which features some very interesting if gruesome medical complications. I mean, who isn’t fascinated by that stuff, even a little?" 

"Literally so many people," Steve counters.

"Cap!" an extremely loud voice shouts suddenly near Bucky's right ear.  

Bucky turns to see a shorter, brown-haired man with a slightly-graying goatee, addressing an amused-looking Steve.  

 _Or 'Cap,' apparently. I wonder why -_  

"Hey, Tony," Steve grins, as the man slaps a hand down on Steve's much taller shoulder.  

"Who the fuck is this guy, Cap? Your new sidekick?" Tony gestures to Bucky. Steve opens his mouth to speak but Tony cuts him off, adding, "Doesn't look like he'd be much help in a fight, though."  

" _Tony_ ," Steve barks, his tone suddenly full of iron and his face intimidatingly serious as he glares at the shorter man, who takes no notice. 

Bucky bristles, hunching his shoulder stump defensively and opening his own mouth to start in on a loud 'Fuck you, buddy,' before Tony continues, "Hair that long has got to be a liability in combat – one hard yank and he'd be on his knees."  

Bucky pauses, speechless. 

 _Who the fuck is this fuckin' -_  

Tony's eyes glint mischievously at Bucky and he adds, "Although, maybe you like that."   

Amused despite himself but still fairly affronted, Bucky counters in a mild tone, "Yeah, you know, I really do - makes a very effective handle, for someone willing to be handsy."

Steve, having dropped the glare slightly and taken a small sip of his beer, chokes slightly.   

Tony smiles wolfishly at Bucky. "I see the point and concur - I, however, have to be careful, hair as good as _this_ can't afford to be jerked around by -"   

At this point a very tall, very dignified man leans in to cut Tony off, offering Bucky his hand. "James Rhodes, nice to meet you - ?" 

"Bucky Barnes." 

"Nice to meet you, Bucky. I think you probably get the gist already, but the key is to avoid engaging Tony at all costs."  

"Yeah, I think I'll keep that in mind."   

Tony, not looking offended in the slightest, simply shrugs. "As if any of you could ignore me if you tried. I'm an effervescent, beautiful magnet of a man and a shining beacon of light in all of your lives. Even you, New Guy," he adds, nodding at Bucky.    

"I'm blinded," Bucky deadpans.  

Steve chuckles.   

Tony finishes off the beer he is holding with one swig and gestures toward the bar before moving off in its direction without another word.   

Rhodes rolls his eyes at Steve, Bucky, and Sam as he follows behind Tony.   

"Where the hell did you find that one?" Bucky asks Steve, once the two of them have moved off.  

"Tony? Did the logo design for his tech startup a few years back. We held the meetings at my apartment a few times and then he just started showing up unannounced about once a week." Steve shrugs. "Always brings pizza, though." 

"I've said this before, but I'm not sure the pizza is worth the company, man," Sam argues, but there is only amusement in his tone.  

"Eh, he ain't so bad," Steve counters.  

At this point there is some commotion on the stage: five men mount the platform, picking up instruments and plugging in cords, the concert obviously about to begin.  

"So what do they go by?" Bucky inquires, gesturing to the band with his half-empty beer glass.  

"They're called 'The 107s.'" Steve points to each member in turn. "There's Monty and Dernier on electric guitar, Gabe on bass, Morita is the vocalist, and that's Dum Dum on the drums." He points last to the wide-shouldered blond with the impressive handle-bar mustache and an inexplicable bowler hat behind the drum set.  

"Dum Dum, yeah? I like his style," Bucky comments. Steve shoots him a blazing grin.  

 _Oof_ _._  

The band starts up with a Television classic, and doesn't relent much after that. The bar is too full of bodies for anyone to do more than a vigorous head bob, and the band is far too loud to allow for any conversation. Bucky just stands next to Steve and enjoys both the music and Steve's proximity.  

The band takes a quick drink-break after an amazing, punk-ed up rendition of 'Night Moves' by Bob Seger, and in the relative quiet Steve suddenly interjects, "You wear glasses," indicating Bucky's face with a pointed finger.  

Bucky quickly casts his mind back to the other two times he and Steve had met, realizing that he'd been wearing his contacts both times. Tonight he hadn't been in the mood, pushing his frames onto his nose on the way out of the apartment. 

 _Steve noticed_ _?_  

"Yeah," Bucky agrees mildly. "I use them to, you know, see."   

Steve shoots him a slightly pink, wholly unimpressed look. Bucky loves it.  

"Ha-ha, smartass. I like them," Steve mumbles.  

Bucky struggles for a response to that, saved by the reassembly of the band on the stage. Following this exchange, standing so close to Steve becomes minutely more distracting.  

 _As if it weren't_ _consuming all your faculties already._  

_He likes your glasses??_

Bucky grins to himself for a minute.  

He had psyched himself up to be meeting Steve's girlfriend tonight as well, but by this point it's obvious she isn't here.  

 _I wonder why not? Maybe they..._  

He squashes this thought as soon as it springs up, feeling shamefaced.  

 _The status of Steve's romantic relationship is not up_ _for examination. You are here to make_ friends _with him. Friends._  

Bucky tries to focus solely on the band for the remainder of the set. They are, in fact, pretty spectacular, and Bucky is enjoying himself more than a bit.  

After the band wraps up their second encore (the Ramones version of 'Baby, I Love You') to raucous applause, the mass of people start to trickle out to the street, saying goodnight or mingling and smoking in small groups.  

Bucky stands with Steve, waiting for Nat and Clint to find him.  

"Oh hey." Steve reaches into the jacket of his black canvas jacket. "I brought something for you." He pulls out a CD in a white cardboard sleeve. "It's the Finders Fee mix I mentioned before," he explains with a touch of embarrassment. "I figured you deserved it after all." 

"Oh!" Bucky had totally forgotten the plastic case in his own back pocket until this moment, and his skin feels strangely thin as he reaches back to pull it out, adding, "That's funny actually, I brought you a CD too." 

Bucky's heart is beating high and tight in his chest as he hands the CD to Steve and then takes the one Steve is offering in return. "It's not a mix," Bucky tells him. "It's a Nina Simone album - I noticed you didn't have any of her stuff on your iPod."  

Steve looks down at the blue plastic case covering Bucky's CD, wearing a complicated look that Bucky can't read. "Thanks, Bucky. That's – that's awesome." Steve smiles again, devastating and beautiful.  

"Oh, my pleasure," Bucky manages, weakly. "And thank you, this is so great – I was ah, missing your mixes the past few weeks." 

"Well, that one's made especially for you. Hope you like it." 

"I'm sure I will." 

And then the two of them are just staring at each other under the dim light of the streetlamp, the sidewalk around them animated with people talking, smoking, gesticulating, laughing. Steve's eyes are crazy blue.  

"Ready to go?" Nat's voice breaks in from behind Bucky.  

Bucky flinches, startled out of his reverie. "Oh!" He turns toward her. "Yeah, yeah let's go." 

"Thanks for coming, you guys," Steve says, his hand coming down firmly and suddenly on Bucky's right shoulder.  

It's the first time they've touched since that initial handshake at the café, and Bucky feels the warmth of Steve's palm trickle down into his chest, heading south and rearranging his insides as it goes.  

Bucky looks back at Steve's face, something in Steve's expression looking as jolted as Bucky feels.  

Steve pulls his hand away.  

"Bye, Steve," Bucky blurts.  

"See you around, Bucky. Nat, Clint – nice to meet you." 

"You too, Steve!" Clint calls over his shoulder, he and Nat already shuffling down the sidewalk, arms around each other's waists.  

Bucky walks a few paces behind Nat and Clint, feeling the cool night air on his face and listening to Clint chanting 'Night moves!' over and over in a high falsetto and Nat's answering laughter.  

Bucky watches Nat's bright hair gleam crimson under the lights they pass, but in his mind's eye all he can see is the glint of gold, a smattering of faint freckles, and a deep, impossible blue.

He sighs.  

 _Oh motherfucking shit._  

_Whoops._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Nina Simone Sings the Blues' is fairly spectacular.  
> It also might feature a love song called 'Buck.' Who knew? 
> 
> THANKS FOR READING, MY DUDES. <3


	6. Track 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where to next? Just deeper into the woods, apparently. Though I'm having a hard time identifying this species of tree - are they Unrequited Pines? or Mutual Pines? Hard to say - I'm no botanist. 
> 
> Long chapter, kiddos - I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> <3

Steve's playlist is, of course, perfect.  

Bucky uploads the music into his laptop, transfers it to his phone, and listens to it non-stop all weekend. The CD itself is decorated with a little caricature, done up in permanent marker, of an iPod with stick-like arms and a lost expression, peering over the edge of a 'Lost and Found' box. 'Finders Fee' is written in a bold, sure script on the white cardboard sleeve. 

After uploading the music Bucky pins the CD to the wall above his desk. He refuses to feel weird about doing so. 

 _I_ _mean, the_ _doodle is cute_ _._ _That's all._  

He's listening to the mix for what feels like the thousandth time as he commutes home from the hospital on Tuesday, the twangs of 'Meet Me In the City' by Junior Kimbrough transitioning to the first chords of 'We Never Argue' by Lambchop as he ascends the metro steps to the street.   

 _Perfect._   

The air is crisp and clean around him in the way that only October air can be, and he is feeling perfectly contented as he opens the door to the apartment, removing his earbuds as he steps into the living room. His ears instantly pick up the lyrics of 'Gold Dust Woman' filtering in from the direction of the kitchen.   

 _Hell yesssss,_ _Nat must be cooking!_   

Sure enough he finds Nat at the kitchen counter chopping tomatoes and onions, a saucepan already sizzling on the stove.   

"Can I help?" Bucky asks over Stevie Nicks's passionate crooning.   

"Hey, sweetheart," Nat greets him. "Sure you can. Mind stirring that for me?" She slides neat chunks of vegetables off her cutting board into the pan and hands him a wooden spoon.   

Bucky takes the spoon, prodding at the colorful chunks and singing along to the last few bars of the song.   

"How was your day?" Nat questions.   

"Pretty great, actually - you? What did you do today?"   

Nat just smiles blandly at him. Bucky rolls his eyes at her and turns back to his stirring; he isn't exactly sure what it is that Natasha does for work, and she very infrequently obliges him with clues.   

 _She doesn't carry a briefcase, I know that much._   

Nat turns her back to him in order to do something complicated with a fork to some kind of squash. Out of the corner of his eye Bucky catches sight of Clint lurking in the doorway to the room.  

Clint had been officially banished from the kitchen following the infamous Banana Fritter Incident, and he seems to be taking Nat's restrictions to heart.   

Meeting Bucky's eye, Clint signs, "Why does she let YOU help?"   

Bucky rests the spoon on the side of the pan and signs back, "You know why."   

"Babe, come in here – you can be on wine duty," Nat orders, her back still to them.   

Clint's eyebrows shoot up and he signs to Bucky, "How does she do that?"   

Bucky just shrugs his shoulders; he's given up questioning Nat's particular brand of ESP.   

Clint enters the room, still looking wary, and starts to assemble wine glasses on the counter. Nat sings along to 'Gypsy' as she continues on the squash, the sound of her voice as familiar and comforting as the smell of garlic that surrounds them.   

All in all, it's a pretty perfect evening. Bucky tries not to think about Steve too much.   

Still, he can't help listening to the mix just one more time before falling asleep.  

 

\--- 

 

Today 12:55 PM  

Steve:  **H** **appy** **A** **ll** **H** **allows'** **! 107s are having a show tonight if you guys are free!**   

Me: afraid i cant i have my annual great pumpkin meet and greet   

Steve:  **O** **h c'** **m** **on Linus, you know he'll just be a no-show again.**   

Me: SHUT UP you nonbelieving HEATHEN   

Steve: **A** **nd I bet they won't have** **B** **rooklyn's** **best whiskey sour at this meet and greet.**   

Me: you make a compelling point for a doubting thomas   

Me: sounds great  

Me: i think dugan already texted clint the details, well be there  

Steve: **A** **wesome** **:)**  

Me: those two fell for each other fast btw   

Me: ive already had dugan snoring on my couch twice this week   

Steve: **H** **ow cute** **.**  

Me: not sure if cute is the right word pal  

Me: theyre like tweens  

Me: pizza bagels every.where.   

Steve: **H** **ahaaaa**   

Steve: **A** **nd to think, my little** **i** **P** **od** **is responsible for their** **bromance** **.**   

Steve: **Y** **ou are welcome.**    

Me: ill thank you when youre the one who cleans up after their next mario cart tournament   

Me: i keep finding dorito crumbs in my shoes   

Steve: **C** **ool** **ranch?**   

Me: THATS your question??  

Steve: **C** **ompletely valid question.**    

Me: you are an odd man rogers   

Steve: **S** **ee you tonight, Barnes.**    

 

Bucky gets home from his shift at the bakery by eight. He takes a quick shower to decompress and erase the smell of burnt coffee grounds and stale butter from his hair. He tips his head back under the hot spray, cracking his knuckles and willing his hand to un-cramp.   

 _If I get tendinitis from pumping Pumpkin Spice flavor shots, so help me, I will find someone to sue._    

Natasha and Clint had already left for the evening before he got in, so the apartment is quiet as he dresses. His costume is simple this year: a cheap, black onesie with a skeleton graphic, his gray zip-up hoodie pulled on over it, and his feet shoved into his black high-tops.  

He briefly considers using his skeleton-hand pin to tack up his empty left sleeve as a festive detail, but instead pulls the sleeve of the hoodie inside-out, not wanting to worry about the pin being bumped loose if the bar is crowded.   

Looking in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth, Bucky figures it's unlikely anyone will guess he's 'Donnie Darko as a skeleton,' and not just a skeleton.   

 _Fine by_ _me_ _,_ he thinks. After all, his weird little tradition isn't meant to amuse anyone but himself.   

He throws his drying hair up in a quick bun, grabs his keys, and shuffles out the door. The night is the coldest of the season so far, and the chill breeze is almost painfully bracing.   

 _Christ, this_ _skeleton_ _isn't exactly insulated. This wind is_ _rattlin_ _'_ _my bones._   

 _H_ _eh._  

He double checks the address of the bar from Clint's text and decides to walk the full distance, gritting his teeth against his frequent shivers.   

The door of the bar is street level, but immediately inside a set of stairs leads him down into the basement. The stairwell is dark, the bar beneath not much brighter, and he does his best not to trip over his feet as he descends.  

The room is already crowded, packed full with colorful bodies. He scans his eyes over the milling people, many made taller than normal by the hats and antennae and ears that go with their costumes. Finally there's a shift in a group of scantily clad persons – _I hope they brought coats, it's a bit brisk for just nipple tassels out there_ _–_ and through their be-glittered limbs, Bucky spots Steve.   

 _Jesus fuckin' Christ_ _. As if anyone could miss him._  

Steve is standing at a little table to the right of the stage, a hanging lamp illuminating him with soft, yellow light as he takes a sip from a tumbler. His hair is parted rigidly on one side, the gilded locks slicked back with military precision. He's wearing an army dress uniform circa WWII, all muted green wool with glints of gold, the Windsor knot at his throat crisp and tight. The cut of the jacket makes his chest seem impossibly broad, his shoulders wide and confidently set.   

Bucky feels himself swallow thickly, torn between what to do once he reaches Steve's side - whether to salute him and stand at attention, or to bend him over the nearest surface and have a go at disheveling that finely coiffed hair.   

 _Damn._   

A wave of panic – _And maybe something else_ – sweeps up from his lower belly. Bucky decides that the safest route would be to not reach Steve at all. He turns his head, looking frantically for Nat's copper hair among the neon wigs and masks at the bar. Catching no sign of her, his head swivels back to find Steve staring straight at him.  

A jolt of electricity runs down Bucky's legs.   

Their eyes now met, Steve's face breaks into a wide grin, his white teeth gleaming brighter than the gold buttons on his chest.  

Before Bucky can second guess, his feet are moving toward Steve's bright lights.   

"Hey, Donnie," Steve greets him, smirking.   

"Really? You get it on the first guess? You little shit, Rogers."  

"I probably wouldn't've, but I watched that movie last night - the hoodie sealed it. That and the fact that Clint is dressed as Frank." Steve gestures somewhere behind Bucky with the hand holding his drink, his pointer finger pinning the black stirring straw to the side of the glass to keep it from sloshing with the liquid.   

"Fuck. He didn't." Bucky turns and, sure enough, there's Clint standing at the bar with Nat, dressed in a giant bunny suit, the terrifying head-piece held under one arm. Clint's lifting a shot in Bucky's direction, saluting him and looking vastly pleased with himself.  

Bucky flips him the bird and Clint turns back to Natasha with a laugh, the two of them downing their shots in a synchronized gesture.   

 _Christ, i_ _s_ _that_ _J_ _äge_ _r_ _?_   

Bucky notices Natasha is dressed as Wednesday Addams, her tight pigtail braids shining under the lights.  

 _Fitting._   

Bucky turns back to Steve, shaking his head. "That absolute _wank_. I made him promise! Damn. And I was so secretive this year - planted a decoy and everything."  

"What, you didn't plan this?" Steve's eyebrows raise slightly, making the tiniest line form on the skin between them.  

Bucky wants to smooth it out with his thumb.   

"Fuck, absolutely _not_. Clint insists that group costumes are the only way to do it, but Natasha refuses to go as a pair with him. So for the last few years he's been couple-costuming with me - completely against my will," Bucky explains.  

"Seriously?" Steve giggles and Bucky's chest squeezes in response.   

"Yeah, the fucker - he just shows up in something that pairs with whatever I chose."  

"Wait, I want to revisit the decoy costume for a second."   

"Oh that." Bucky smirks. "I borrowed a gorilla costume from a friend at work and hung it in my closet - hoped Clint would show up as Ann Darrow."   

Steve throws his head back in a laugh, the light dancing off his hair.   

Bucky smiles down at his feet and sighs. "Nah, wouldn't have phased him though," he adds ruefully. "Clint looks fuckin' great in drag - wears a skirt almost as well as Nat. But at least he would've frozen his ass off if he were in a dress."   

Steve's face seems to open even further when he laughs like this - his grin thrown wide, like a door. Inviting. Bucky wonders if he can keep making it happen all night.   

A waitress in a bright-pink bob wig swings by and takes Bucky's drink order, depositing a Moscow Mule and a bar napkin in front of him a few minutes later.   

"So why Donnie?" Steve inquires.  

"Hmm? Oh ah, let me precursor this by saying I am a huge nerd - just in general. And ah, I love Halloween," Bucky chatters, feeling his cheeks warming as the blood rushes up into his face. "I've been doing this thing where I, um, go in costume as characters _in_ costume. Does that sound like too much forethought into dress-up? It does. It is. Jesus - like I said, _n_ _erd._ "  

 _Stop talking. You rambling rambler._   

"What, like a double disguise? That's adorable." Steve grins at him. "Tell me some of the other ones."  

Bucky smiles back, choosing to ignore both his blushing cheeks and his brain's insistence on replaying that _'_ adorable' over and over like a mantra in his head. "Well, ah, there was Charlie Brown as a ghost – you know, a sheet with a bunch of holes cut in it -"  

"And a plastic pumpkin full of rocks?" Steve's eyes crinkle up.   

"Yeah - though props are always a mistake, I find. There was Scout Finch as the ham -"   

Steve's laugh comes out as a sharp 'Ha!' and Bucky's stomach does something warm and embarrassing in response.   

"And Tobias Fünke in his Blue Man getup – that was a cold night, those tiny fuckin' jean shorts - and Jim from The Office, as 'Dave'."   

"So just the paper name tag, then?" Steve chuckles. "Wait, so, what was Clint all those times? If he was pairing with you?"  

"Oh ah, Linus the first year, and then Dwight Schrute. Luckily I didn't know him before he and Nat started dating, so was spared from whatever butchered rendition of Boo Radley he would've come up with."    

"Yikes, that's lucky - he probably would've made a great Gob though." Steve takes another sip of his drink.  

Bucky tries not to stare at his throat as he swallows.  

"He and Nat have been together a few years then? Man, from the looks of it I would've guessed they were still in the honeymoon stage..." Steve trails off, glancing back over Bucky's shoulder.  

Bucky turns to see Wednesday and Frank in the midst of a sloppy make out session, pressed up against the wall next to the bar.  

Bucky winces. "Oh ah, you know, they've been going strong with the inappropriate public-touching since day one, no sign of slowing down. The private-touching too - they go at it like rabbits. Rabbit costume aside." Bucky shakes his head and closes his eyes firmly against the tongue-heavy spectacle.   

 _Jesus. Every.day._   

"That must make for some colorful roommate bonding back at the roost." Steve arches one eyebrow.   

"I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that every surface of our apartment is on first name terms with Clint's bare ass."  

"Noted," Steve says with a chuckle. "What about you, seeing anyone right now?" Steve's eyes slide from Bucky's as he asks this, landing his gaze somewhere at the bottom of his glass.   

"Ah." Bucky tries to tamp down the tide of embarrassment that wells up and resists the urge to joke - _What, you mean like the ghost of Bruce Willis? He's right behind you! -_ as a defense. "No, not at the moment," he says in a sheepish tone.   

"Well then, Donnie, what about this crowd, huh? See any Jenna Malone's around?" Steve lifts his head up, surveying the room.   

"You know," Bucky starts, resolutely _not_ looking at Steve, "given that Donnie basically gets her character run over by a car, I don't find that element of the comparison totally desirable."   

 _But_ _accurate, totally accurate_ _._  

 _T_ _hough in this scenario I am Jenna Malone and the car is my huge, obnoxious crush on you_.   

"Though, man," Bucky adds, hoping to divert the topic a little, "I had a huge crush on her when that movie came out - Jenna."   

"Oh, ditto," Steve confesses. "And both of the Gylenhaals, too."   

Bucky's heart perks up in interested speculation at this, lodging itself somewhere in the vicinity of his Adam's apple, before he shoves it back down into his chest with a gulp. 

 _Okay, s_ _o it's possible he's b_ _i - d_ _oesn't matter_ _. It_ _doesn’t matter, he isn't_ single _._  

 _Not. Single._   

"Totally," Bucky basically wheezes. He takes a big swallow of his drink, hoping to distract his mouth from whatever inane thing was going to blurt out. "So," he continues, composing himself as the whiskey burns a slow trail down his throat, "you got the full lowdown on my costume - you gunna tell me about this dapper uniform, or what?"   

"Oh!" Steve looks down at his chest, as if he had forgotten what he was wearing until Bucky mentioned it. "Ah, well I sorta left the costume decision 'till the last minute this year. Actually the absolute last minute - and this was already hanging in my closet, and Sam was yelling at me to come help the band carry equipment, so. It was my great-grandfather's - one of the things my grandpa left to me." Steve's broad shoulders turn in slightly in a self-conscious shrug.   

"Steve. Jesus - are you telling me you dressed up as the ghost of your own great-grandfather?" Bucky smiles at him, hoping to throw him a bit with the joke, to knock the sudden shyness out of his frame.   

"No! Well. Yes?" Steve chuckles, softening back into humor. "Yes, I guess I did - inadvertently. We do look a lot alike, and ah, have the same name."  

"Christ," Bucky laughs.   

"My gramps would have loved it, actually - would've thought it was a hoot."  

 _A hoot?_ _This kid._  

"He probably would've wanted me to put on zombie makeup with it – the works. Would've put it on me himself. My mom would've taken a million pictures." Something tightens the corners of Steve's eyes at this comment, but Bucky sees him push it resolutely away, his face clearing as they laugh together.   

They both take swigs of their drinks, ice clinking against the glass with an almost lyrical tinkling.   

"I'm completely in love with the Nina album, by the way," Steve offers. "So thanks for that." 

"Oh, it was my ah, pleasure. Couldn't have you missing out on Miss Simone like that," Bucky tells him.  

"Speaking of which -  _Buck_ -y - I've got a question for you," Steve continues mysteriously.  

"Oh yeah?"  

"Are you 'gentle oh so gentle' with your 'great big hands?'"   

Bucky's brain blanks out completely.  

_What._

"What?" 

"Do you really not realize you gave me an album which features a song titled after your own name?" Steve asks him, grinning.  

 _Oh... my..._  

"God. No, does it? Oh God, it does, doesn't it," Bucky stutters, cringing.   

 _What sort of Freudian – how could you not – were you really so flustered by Steve that you didn't realize that?!_  

 _Wow. Just -_ _wow._   

"I didn't even  _think_  – I wasn't trying to, to – I'm not _that_ narcissistic, I  _swear_  – Stop laughing, Rogers, you fucking punk!"  

Steve is laughing unreservedly at Bucky now, obviously tickled by what must be a look of complete mortification on Bucky's face.   

"This is so embarrassing," Bucky mutters.   

"Oh, don't worry about it, _Buck_."  

"You know no one but my sister calls me that – probably contributed to the oversight."  

Steve just keeps on laughing, his eyes scrunched up in mirth, and Bucky has an overwhelming compulsion to punch him, or maybe kiss him.  

 _M_ _aybe one first, then the other._   

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees a small hand wrap around Steve's side. One glance at the owner of the hand and the bottom of Bucky's stomach drops out.   

He knows exactly who she must be.   

She's tall and starkly pretty, with cherry-red lips and soft brown hair that shines even under the dim and dingy light of the bar. She has obviously come straight from the office, her red blouse tucked in to a tweed pencil skirt that tidily hugs the curve of her hips. No costume.   

 _Not that she need_ _ed_ _one to scare the shit out of me_.   

She's easily one of the most beautiful and intimidating people Bucky's ever seen; all poise and grace, her strong presence does not pale even slightly by the fact of Steve standing close to her side.   

 _W_ _hich is saying a lo_ _t,_ _as Steve is the human equivalent of a_ _broadway_ _marquee_ _._   

Bucky knows he would already be neck-deep in a crush on her, in all of five seconds in her presence, if it weren't for Steve.   

 _If it weren't for Steve..._    

At this point Bucky's internal monologue reduces itself to inarticulate dying-seal noises.   

Because Steve there _is_ , and Bucky does everything he can to reign in the sudden flush of jealousy and panic that wells up in his chest as Steve turns into the woman's arm, placing a kiss on her bright mouth with a pleased "Hello!"   

"Hullo, dear," she says, her clear voice tinged with an English accent.   

Bucky's seal noises go up a register.   

Steve looks to Bucky as he slides one arm around the woman's waist, squeezing her against him in a gesture so obviously habitual that Bucky feels the knot in his throat tighten.  

"Bucky this is my girlfriend, Peggy. Pegs, this is Bucky."    

"Lovely to meet you." Peggy nods at Bucky, her expression warm. It's obvious she's heard his name before this moment.  

She extends her free hand to shake Bucky's and Bucky fumbles to simultaneously place his drink on the table and school his expression into something a little less shell-shocked.   

"H-hi!" he stammers, his now-empty hand coming up to meet hers.   

 _Alright, Barnes,_ _pull it together_ _._ _You are being_ _ri_ _diculous_ _._   

Not batting an eye at how obviously flustered Bucky is, Peggy asks him, "So you're the gentleman who found and returned this loser's, what was it, walkman? 8-track player?" She gives Steve a side-eye as one corner of her mouth twists up, teasing.   

Steve rolls his eyes at her. " _Ha_ _ha_ _-_ hilarious. That iPod may not be up to date but it's perfectly functional and - "   

Bucky cuts him off, speaking to Peggy in a mockingly earnest tone, "It was his phonograph, actually. How he managed to misplace it, with a horn that big, I don't -"  

"Bah! The _two_ of you are such -" Steve's cheeks are taking on a pink tinge, his eyes even bluer in contrast.   

"- know. Glad I managed to return it, I shudder to think what he would have done without his vaudeville tunes," Bucky finishes, grinning.   

Peggy grins back. "He'd've been absolutely shattered. Thank God for you."   

Steve looks back and forth between Peggy and Steve, huffing. "You two are the worst - Bess and I do not deserve to be the targets of your snobbery and old-man jokes. See if I make either of you a mix again."   

"Sorry, darling," Peggy reaches up to pat his head soothingly.   

"Mhmm," Steve grunts, but his scowl falters and he starts nuzzling into her touch. "How was the workday?" he asks her.   

"Oh, the usual." Peggy mimes locking her lips and tossing the key over her shoulder.   

"Ah, rightttt. 'International Woman of Mystery Has 'Okay' Day at the Office?'" Steve chuckles, smiling at her.  

"Pretty much."  

 _Maybe she works with Nat,_ Bucky thinks, _for T_ _he I_ _nexplicably Secret Society_ _of Impossibly Beautiful, Incredibly_ _Competent_ _Women._  

"Would you like a drink?" Bucky pipes in to ask Peggy. "I was just about to go for a refill."   

 _Yep, just_ _going to_ _ref_ _resh_ _my drink. Not to escape_ _your_ _cute banter_ _with Steve_ _._  

 _N_ _ot that_ _, n_ _o way._   

"Thank you, Bucky, but I'll just be stealing the rest of this one." Peggy reaches up and snags the almost empty glass from Steve's hand and takes a sip. "I just popped in to say 'hello' to the boys before I make a mad dash for home - it's been a long day," she says with a sigh.    

"Oh." Steve frowns, sounding disappointed but not surprised. "Want me to come with?"   

"Oh no, you stay. I've got a full evening of solo-decompression planned, involving a bath and a shockingly early bedtime - you stay and have fun." Peggy grins up at Steve, her cherry lips curling beautifully.   

"Okay, go relax and I'll see you soon," Steve murmurs, giving her another quick peck and squeeze.   

"I shall and you will. You look very dashing, by the way, soldier."  

She pulls away from Steve, throwing "It was great to meet you, Bucky!" and a grin over her shoulder as she works her way toward the stage where The 107's are tuning up.   

Both Steve and Bucky watch her go, Bucky resisting the urge to sigh theatrically. So many emotions are fighting for the upper hand in his mind that he feels slightly sick.   

Steve turns back toward the table. "So - another drink?"   

"Yes," Bucky agrees with alacrity.   

 _Or five._   

They head for the bar, reaching the counter just before a hand claps down on Bucky's shoulder.   

"Honey!" Clint, obviously having extracted himself from Wednesday's embraces, smacks a rather large, rather wet kiss onto Bucky's cheek.   

" _Bunches_ _,_ " Bucky greets him in an ominous tone, narrowing his eyes. "How the fuck did you figure out what I'd be wearing, you motherfucker?"   

Clint cackles. "I've got my spies everywhere, dipshit." He waggles his eyebrows like a cartoon.  

"I'm gunna strangle Nat with her braids," Bucky mutters, letting his scowl deepen.   

"Hey, she had to stop me going as Pugsley somehow. Plus I love coupling with you! My Bucky - my pal."   

"Jesus, shut the fuck up. Put the bunny head back on, it's much less offensive to me than your face."   

"Nah, it's too scary - wouldn't want to creep out the good Captain here. Hey Steve! Or should I say 'Cap'n Steve?'" Clint aims his slightly glassy eyes and wide smile in Steve's general direction.   

"Hey there, Clint - or should I say 'Frank?'" Steve grins at Clint, giving the bunny costume the once-over.   

 _Traitor,_ Bucky thinks.  

"Actually, that's 'Lieutenant Colonel Frank' to you," Clint admonishes Steve in mock seriousness, swaying slightly as he shifts the bunny head from one arm to the other.  

"Where'd Wednesday run off to - back to the haunted mansion? Or did she just dissolve in the saliva you were slathering all over her?" Bucky questions Clint, laying a steadying hand on the matted fur of Clint's shoulder.  

"I'm right here, you jealous pig," Nat exclaims, poping up somehow in the few inches of space between Bucky and the bar counter, startling him. Her eyes meet his and she raises a sculpted eyebrow in a way that clearly communicates 'I saw the whole thing and it amused me' before flicking her eyes between him and Steve.   

 _Shit._   

"Hello again, Steve." Nat smirks, as composed as ever - shots of Jäger and messy frenching notwithstanding. Her eyes travel slowly up and down Steve's uniform. "So when are you shipping out, soldier? Gunna give your sweetheart a memorable goodbye?"  

"Pretty soon, ma'am," Steve drawls, his face suddenly serious and polite as he picks up the act. "My time's cut pretty short, but I'll try my darndest to give her a _lasting_ impression." He flashes her his hundred-watt, American-hero smile and – _Shit, I'd buy his war bonds –_ winks.  

Natasha laughs. "I'm sure you will - should make her a playlist to remember you by."  

"Okay!" Bucky quickly cuts in, blush creeping up his neck. "We all getting drinks here or what?"   

They flag down the bartender and order their drinks, Steve and Clint joking, Bucky and Natasha holding a conversation in death-glares and amused eyebrow lifting over the others' heads. The band starts their set soon after, their guitar chords and drumbeats pressing in around their little group, along with the elbows and hoisted beer bottles.   

Nat and Clint leave Bucky and Steve at the bar, making their way to the front of the crowd where Bucky catches occasional glimpses of them through the jumble of dancing bodies. Bucky and Steve grab a few now-empty stools and attempt conversation under and over the throb of the music.   

They have two drinks, then four.   

Bucky makes Steve laugh so hard he snorts his rum and coke. Their stools get closer and closer as they start to favor close murmurs over shouts. Steve gesticulates energetically when he tells stories and Bucky is trying and failing harder with each drink not to get distracted by Steve's hands, moving gracefully through the air between them.   

Once, as Steve leans close to deliver a punch line, his lips brush Bucky's ear. Bucky feels his whole body light up in response, each individual cell ringing like a bell.   

Bucky's drunk. He's comfortable. His stomach is tight and bruised from laughter.   

Somewhere in their conversation the band finishes, people drifting back to the bar, crowding in on them again.  

Nat appears, laying a warm hand on Bucky's elbow, saying that Clint is staying to help the band pack up, but that she's headed home.   

"I'll walk with you," Bucky tells her.   

Bucky trades goodbyes with Steve, his insides shifting with something equally effervescent and disappointed.  

This time they don't touch.   

Coming up into the freezing air of the street with Natasha on his arm, Bucky feels the comfortable atmosphere of the bar slough off of him like a second skin. The cold wind is cutting and brutal.   

Still, there's a bubble of contentment swirling inside his rib cage, something built on the shape of Steve's face as he shifts expressions, on the golden shine of his hair. Bucky doesn't allow himself to look at this too closely, but he's glad it's there, warming him from the inside as he and Nat cover block after block in an even pace.   

They are quiet for a long stretch, arms linked, both lost to their own booze-addled thoughts.   

"I'm sorry." Nat's voice cuts suddenly into the fog around Bucky's mind.   

"Hmmm?" he mumbles, focusing on her.   

She pauses and something about the set of her face brings a seriousness suddenly between them.  

"You really like him, don't you?" she asks, voice and expression soft.   

"Oh, um." Bucky swallows audibly, deciding instantly that he won't put up a front of not understanding who she means. "Yeah - I mean, yeah," he admits somewhat lamely, pulling his eyes from hers to hide his embarrassment and sudden agitation. "It's not - it's no big deal. Fish in the sea, all that." 

He feels her arm squeeze tighter into the crook of his elbow.  

"Plus, you know - friendship is..." He meets her eyes again with a small smile. "Friendship is just as good."   

"True," Nat agrees, and her eyes hold only concern, no pity, as she tucks her head against his arm.  

"It's for the best, anyways. You know me...." Bucky trails off.   

"James," she looks up at him, forces him to meet her eyes. "You aren't broken."   

Bucky feels tears prick his eyes instantly, his face hot.   

 _Drunk_ _AND_ _weepy? T_ _ake_ _a breath, Barnes_ _._   

He clears his throat thickly.   

"So," Nat says brightly, deftly slicing the serious mood in two. "What are your plans for getting back at Clint for the bunny suit? Need a co-conspirator?"  

"You're the one who fed my costume secrets to him in the first place!" Bucky scoffs teasingly, pushing away his sudden sadness and picking up her abrupt subject change with alacrity. He gives a thankful squeeze to her arm; Nat might never let him get away with anything, but she's unfailingly gentle about it. "You double-crossing sneak," he finishes.   

" _Excuse_ me - I am exceedingly loyal to my team," Nat counters. "I just resign myself to helping _both_ of you asshats pull off your petty, stupid pranks - as if either of you would get anything done without me, anyway. Plus, it made him so happy. You know how much he loves doing couple-y things with you. He's a true romantic."   

Bucky sighs his best long-suffering –  _Like_ _,_ _seventy-years-of-torture_ _long-suffering_ \- sigh. "He does get the cutest giddy look when he's screwing me over."  

"So - the plan. Replace all the coffee with decaf?"   

"You know, that one ended up backfiring on us a bit, last time - I fell asleep on the B twice." Bucky shakes his head slowly, surprised not to hear the contents sloshing against the walls of his skull. "I was thinkin' about signing him up for email alerts from the animal shelter - so he'll get tortured with daily pictures of all the cute puppies that aren't allowed to live in the apartment."   

"Pure evil." Nat smiles. "I love it. Though if he has a breakdown and insists on moving to a pet-friendly building, you'll be the one following him - I'm way too attached to our bathtub."   

"Who says he can't just move out on his own? He could fill a studio to the brim with puppies and I could finally achieve my master plan of getting you all to myself again."   

"James, you know Barton can't return to the wild - we domesticated him and now we're responsible. We're on permanent babysitting duty with that one." She pretends to roll her eyes, but there's a fond smile creeping over her mouth.   

"You love it," Bucky teases.  

Nat doesn't respond to this, just shoots him a half-hearted glare before smiling fully to herself, looking down at their shuffling feet.   

"You tired?" Bucky asks her. "I was thinking of pulling up _Hocus Pocu_ _s_ and ordering some Thai - I forgot to eat dinner earlier."   

Bucky knows himself, knows he needs to sidetrack his brain before attempting sleep, otherwise there'll be nothing to stop him from replaying sections of the evening on a loop in his head. Specifically the image and sound of one of Steve's belly-laughs - his eyes creased closed, one hand flat to his chest - which is currently distracting Bucky to the point that he can barely see the sidewalk beneath him, causing the toes of his sneakers to catch on breaks in the cement. Natasha's familiar company is doing little to divert these thoughts at present, but add a movie and some Pad See Ew and he thinks he might be able to make a true go of it.   

"Mhmm, that sounds good - papaya salad?" Nat stifles a yawn with her free hand.  

"Of course."  

Bucky shuffles his hand around in the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out his phone to scroll through his contacts for their go-to takeout place. They've made it to their block, so Natasha unhooks her arm from his and searches through her bag for the keys while he makes the call.   

Three flights up and an hour later Bucky is settled back into the couch, a mouth full of noodles and his eyes fixed on Sarah Jessica Parker's bouncing chest.   

 _God bless_ _corsets._   

Nat and Clint, now home and de-bunny-ed, are entwined on the other end of the sofa. Clint's head is pillowed on Nat's stomach and her hands are idly toying with his hair. The sight makes Bucky's chest ache, a messy mix of gladness for them and want for himself forming an agitated ball in the vicinity of his diaphragm.  

He glances down into the oily contents of the paper carton in his lap, bright orange with spice.   

 _Or maybe it's just acid reflux._    

Still, Bucky finds himself stealing glances at the couple throughout the movie, Natasha's hand never ceasing its movement through the blond's close-cropped fuzz.

Bucky forces himself to look back at the screen. He forces himself not to think of Steve, of how his own fingers would look with Steve's golden locks threaded between them, of how Steve's large palm would feel, cupping the back of Bucky's head, pulling his bun loose.   

Three Tums and an hour later Bucky is on his back in bed, massaging his shoulder stump through the worn fabric of his tee-shirt. He forces himself not to think of Steve.   

Three pillow-flips and an hour later Bucky is on his stomach, one knee drawn up, willing himself to fall asleep. He forces himself not to think of Steve.   

Three heavy-sighs and an hour later. He forces himself not to...  

 

\--- 

 

Today 3:34 PM  

Steve: **Hey! What are you up to tonight?**  

Me: nothing much. you?  

Steve: **Sam and I were** **gunna** **order pizza and watch the Nina** **Simone** **documentary on Netflix. Have you seen it? Wanna join?**  

Me: not yet and hell yeah  

Steve: **Great! Sam** **won't shut up about wanting to hang out with you, anyway**  

Steve: **S** **ays he needs more friends at the hospital that aren't 'scalpel-obsessed bloodhounds with God complexes'**  

Me: unfortunately for him that's my MO  

Me: I obviously gave an inaccurate first impression   

Me: it was probably the pudding   

Steve: **H** **e does** **keep mentioning the pudding thing.**  

Me: lol  

Steve: **A** **lright so you're in? I'll send you a pin for my address**  

Steve: **T** **hird floor apartment. 7 work for you?**  

Me: sounds great. ill be there.   

Steve: **:)**  

 

It's pelting down when Bucky leaves the hospital for Steve's apartment, an early-November storm that makes the air smell like winter and the grey sidewalks overflow with dirty water.   

Bucky arrives at Steve's door only slightly worse for wear, a few escaped, dripping locks of hair falling into his face. He wants to push them back off his forehead before knocking, but his hand is full of the six-pack he'd stopped to pick up at the bodega on the corner. He shrugs off his dishevelment and gently kicks the door a few times with his toe.   

After a few seconds, Steve opens the door.   

"Hey, Buck!" Steve's face is bright and glad, and there's a small streak of indigo paint swiped across the left side of his jaw.   

Bucky goes a little dry-mouthed.   

"You've got a little ah, something..." Bucky mutters lamely, hoisting the six-pack and gesturing awkwardly toward Steve's face.   

"Oh!" Steve puts a hand to his cheek. "Yeah, I was a real mess today – working on a portrait commission. I can never seem to keep my face far enough from the canvas."   

Steve moves back from the door slightly, gesturing Bucky to step inside, and Bucky finally lets his eyes drop below Steve's neck.   

Steve is wearing what appears to be a child's small spandex exercise shirt and a pair of neon-blue running shorts. His feet are bare.   

 _Christ._   

Steve notices Bucky looking –  _But hopefully not the drooling. Goddamn_  – and says, "Oh, yeah, I was about to go for a quick run but Sam got back with the pizza early – so a run went out the window in favor of melted cheese."   

"You were going out for a run in this?" Bucky indicates his own damp clothes and hair. "You're fuckin' nuts, Rogers."   

"Hey! It helps calm my nerves and - " Steve breaks off, his face coloring.   

"What are you nervous about?" Bucky questions, unthinking.   

"I -" Steve's blush deepens and he looks so flustered that Bucky can feel his own cheeks heating in response.   

They both stand there, floundering.   

"This is great," comes an amused voice from deeper in the room.   

As one, Bucky and Steve turn toward the sound to spot Sam on the couch, a shit-eating grin on his face and a slice of pizza forgotten in his hand.   

"This is going to be a fun evening, I can tell," Sam continues. "Hey Bucky."   

"Hi Sam," Bucky responds.   

Eager to move past the awkwardness, Bucky lets Steve give him a brief tour of the apartment before they both return to the living room and sit down with Sam, digging into the pizza box on the coffee table.   

Bucky hadn't noticed many signs during the tour that would indicate Peggy also living here, and he musters up his bravery to ask, "Does Peggy live here too?"   

"Nah, it's too far of a commute to her work. We used to live together across town, but ah, this is my mom's apartment,  _was_ my mom's apartment - I grew up here – and when my mom got sick a few years ago I moved back in," Steve explains, something heavy settling into his face as he talks.   

 _Oh, Steve..._   

"She passed away two years ago, but I didn't want to leave this place, you know?"  

"I get it," Bucky says softly. "I'm sorry about your mom."  

"Thanks, Bucky." Steve smiles sadly, quickly adding, "And Sam here moved in a while back, after his boyfriend went overseas."   

Steve is obviously eager to change the subject, shifting restlessly in his seat.   

Sam jumps in, addressing Bucky, "Peggy doesn't live here because she's involved in some high-level, top-secret government shit, and it's too much of a liability to spend this much time around civilians. She scares me, man."  

 _Dude, me too_ , Bucky thinks,  _though most likely for different reasons._   

"Yeah well, your boyfriend jumps out of planes, so..." Steve trails off, raising his eyebrows at Sam.   

"Man,  _do not_  remind me. That boy gives me ulcers."   

"He also gives you heart-butterflies," Steve continues. "And orgasms."  

"Yeah, which is why I put up with the ulcers," Sam mutters.  

Steve turns to Bucky, explaining, "Riley is para-rescue in the Air Force. He went back on tour six months ago, which is why Sam's been living here."  

"Yeah, and I will never forgive him for abandoning me and our beautiful, rent-controlled apartment, and leaving me to bunk with you and your freakishly-neat habits," Sam adds. "He forces me to make my bed _everyday_ ," he whines to Bucky with an exaggerated frown.   

"I don't _force_  you -" Steve tries.   

"You _do_ – you set your Jawline of Justice all stern and glare at me."   

"I do not _glare_  at you - I side-eye you. There's a difference."   

"Yeah, I'm not getting that, man." Sam shakes his head.   

"Side-eyeing is more refined and gracious," Steve says primly.   

"Tasteful Side-Eye?" Bucky offers, smirking.   

"Totally." Steve grins at him.  

"Alright, alright, we gunna watch this movie about my girl, or what?" Sam demands.   

They settle in for the movie, Steve sitting on the couch with Sam and Bucky taking the armchair to Steve's left.   

 _This is alright,_  Bucky thinks,  _not so ba_ _d. This I_ _can do._   

Then Steve laughs at something Sam says, throwing his head back against the couch cushions. The light of the TV catches the shine of his teeth and eyes in an ethereal, blue glow.   

 _O_ _uch._   

Then Steve looks directly at Bucky, his smile going soft, and it hurts even worse.   

Bucky smiles back at him.  

_But it's worth it. Totally worth it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Natasha is listening to in the kitchen, 'Gold Dust Woman' by Fleetwood Mac, includes the lyrics "... Black widow / Ooh, pale shadow, she's a dragon..."  
> Because I am a geek.


	7. Track 7

Following the night of the documentary, Bucky and Steve start to hang out on a regular basis and 'Operation Friends Just Friends' begins to experience some major setbacks. 

 _Though if I'm_ _being honest_ _that plan had some_ _definite_ _flaws from the outset_ _._  

They watch more movies, they go for beers, they eat food - either just the two of them or with a rotating, intermixing cast of friends. Once or twice Steve has Bucky over to sit in companionable quiet at his apartment: Bucky flipping through note cards while Steve paints or fiddles with a project on his tablet, a record playing softly in the background.  

Their time together becomes more and more frequent with the passing weeks and by late November it seems that every available hour Bucky has is spent in Steve's company.  

And between his four days at the hospital, sporadic shifts at the bakery, his Thursday night Anatomy and Physiology lecture, and his two online classes, Bucky is managing to find ample available hours. He shouldn't, maybe, but he can't help himself.  

And it's a problem.  

Because Steve? Steve is _ridiculous_.  

Steve has a dopey and dry sense of humor. He can be self-deprecating at times, but Bucky has also never met someone so unflinchingly _sure_ of themselves. Steve is loyal and strong, forgiving and sweet. He's unfailingly kind, generous with his time and patience, and he always laughs at Bucky's jokes, usually before offering an equally stupid quip in turn. He dresses like a cross between a frat boy, TJ from _Recess,_ and a suburban dad. He hates radio commercials. He has extremely resolute opinions about men's footwear. He's cheesy. He disagrees with Bucky about the ending of _Mad Men_ , which is just stupid, because Bucky is totally right. He eats olives with a fork, straight out of the jar, as if it's a totally normal snack. He's a fucking morning person and he cheats at Scrabble. He has never made Bucky feel self-conscious about his arm - _Or_ _lack thereof_ -  not once. He uses proper punctuation in text messages. He carries a word search puzzle book around in his bag like Bucky's ma. He puts peanut butter on everything. He meets Bucky for sarcasm, with bells on. He loves his friends. He reads more than one book at a time. He's quick to smile.   

Steve is ridiculous and lovely and ridiculously lovely, and Bucky is so head over goddamn heels for him that he is starting to feel perpetually nauseous.   

It's a problem, but only if Bucky thinks about it, which he is _not doing_ , thank you very much and also not at all, you cruel, cruel world.   

Given the fact that Steve's loveliness is wrapped up in the most aesthetically pleasing – _If_ _khaki-_ _wea_ _ring_ – package Bucky has ever seen outside of black and white movies about escaped nobility - _S_ _o_ _I've got_ _a thing for Gregory Peck, who doesn't?_ \- the not-thinking becomes particularly difficult whenever he and Steve are in the same room.   

When they aren't occupying the same physical space it's easier, and Bucky can almost convince himself he's made up the extent to which Steve affects him; sure Steve is amazing, Steve is handsome and wonderful, but he's Bucky's new friend, nothing more, and Bucky can carry on with his day without feeling like his skin is too tight.  

Then Bucky will actually catch sight of Steve and it is instantly and obviously clear that with Steve, something is _different_ _._ It's as if Steve is drawn in darker ink than everyone and everything around him. He's brighter, bigger: he exists in bold.   

 _Bold, italicized, underlined... just_ more.   

Bucky is pretty sure that this isn't merely how _he_ sees Steve, it's just the way Steve is.   

The fact that Peggy remains out of sight during most of Bucky's time with Steve is not helping.  

She isn't out of mind - she is often mentioned by Steve or his friends and several times Steve has left a bar or restaurant early, saying he is "on his way to Peg's." 

Still, her semi-mythical existence is wreaking havoc on Bucky's ability to keep a lid on his volatile emotions concerning Steve; Bucky understands that Steve is in a long-term, committed relationship, but the lack of daily, concrete evidence to that end sets his traitorous heart to wishing.  

Bucky would never – _Never ever_ – act on those wishes while Steve is attached, but he can't help wishing all the same.  

And the wishing sucks.  

Bucky is musing over his lamentable circumstances under the fluorescent lights of the lecture hall, hunched over the faux-wood desk top and waiting for his professor to arrive. His phone vibrates in his jacket pocket.  

 **1 message from Steve Rogers**  

 _Of course._  

Bucky slides the lock screen, retrieving the text. It's a picture of Sam fast asleep on the couch at Steve's apartment, his head pillowed on the arm and six unopened, stacked jello cups balanced precariously on his oblivious forehead.  

The phone buzzes again as a second picture arrives. It's a selfie of Steve, his face twisted into the smuggest smirk Bucky has ever seen.  

Bucky's heart does a pathetic little flop, like a landed fish.  

 _Yeah, the wishing sucks._  

However, it does not fail to occur to Bucky that the wishing is also _safe_ _._ The thing about hopeless longing is that it doesn't require Bucky to actually _do_ anything, and is therefore without risk. Unrequited love is painful, but predictably so; there are no 'what ifs' to consider about your relationship with someone else if that relationship remains completely one-sided.  

 _Though_ _that thought process didn't work out for you too well the last time, did it?_ Bucky thinks to himself, recalling the disaster with Brock yet again and cringing.  

It's just that Bucky has never been one for casual relationships, and since the accident the concept of 'casual' has disappeared with his left arm. Bucky wants a relationship, more than anything, and the strength of that desire terrifies him. Bucky wants, but he wants too much. Bucky wants, but he wouldn't know what to do with himself if he actually got the chance to _have_.  

He'd proven that to himself with Brock.  

 _A_ _nd now Steve..._  

Bucky knows he can't afford to screw up what he's developed with Steve. No matter what, the thing that is most obvious to Bucky is that keeping Steve in his life, in any capacity, is priority number one.  

So the wishing sucks, but the wishing is probably for the best.  

 _And maybe you only want Steve_ because _you can't have him – maybe you are letting the same situation play out all over_ _again_ _and -_  

Bucky is interrupted in his self-loathing by the sound of shuffling papers as the professor enters and class begins.  

His phone buzzes once more as he is opening his notebook.  

Steve: **Come over after class and see if you can beat my record – he just got off shift so he should be out for a while** **:) :) :)**  

 _Oh, b_ _other._  

 

\--- 

 

Bucky is twirling around in Steve's desk chair, waiting for Steve to finish changing out of his paint-splattered clothes before they head downstairs to meet Nat and Sam at the sushi restaurant on the corner.  

He throws out a foot to stop his spin, letting his eyes travel over the pictures and drawings taped up on the wall above Steve's work table. Steve comes back in to the room, throwing his dirty t-shirt toward the hamper in the corner.  

"Hey, whose motorcycle is this?" Bucky asks, pointing to a photograph and swiveling around to face Steve.  

He has to stifle a groan; Steve is looking decidedly less dad-like tonight in dark, fitted jeans, a black v-neck, a faded denim jacket, and boots. The effect is pleasing, to say the least.  

"Mine," Steve says absently, grabbing his wallet and phone of his bed, and Bucky has to swallow another involuntary sound.  

 _Jesus, you thought the clothes were too much and now you have to picture him on a fucking motorcycle?_  

 _UGH._  

"It was my dad's," Steve continues, oblivious to Bucky's internal conniption, "He died when I was five, but my mom kept the bike and I got my own license when I was eighteen – it's kind of impractical to have something like that in the city but it's, you know, sentimental and all that."  

"And all that," Bucky repeats, feeling a pang for Steve that eradicates his exasperation at the outfit. "I don't blame you for keeping it - It's beautiful. Must be fun to ride - I've always wanted to try but..." he trails off.  

"But you never have?"  

"Never got the chance to, before, and then." Bucky shrugs his left shoulder, trying not to look too pathetic. "I miss my bike, though – my fixie," he adds quickly.  

"Yeah? Did you ride a lot, before?"  

Bucky catches the Steve's slight hesitation on 'before;' it's small, but it's there.  

"Um, yeah, maybe too much, actually." Bucky hears himself laugh without humor. "That's what – the accident – I ah, I was on my bicycle, when ah, well a few seconds _before_ , it happened." He shrugs his left shoulder again and forces himself to look up at Steve's face.  

Steve posture is very careful but he doesn't seem uncomfortable. He nods slightly at Bucky, the gesture welcoming him, but not forcing him, to continue the story.  

Bucky sighs. "It was right after undergrad – I had a shitty telemarketing job downtown and would commute back and forth on the bike in the summer. I was late one day, rushing, and didn't notice until the very last second that a little girl had stepped out into the crosswalk ahead of me. I swerved to avoid her, tipped over the handlebars, and landed in the intersection on my back - my arm was," his throat goes a little dry and he swallows, "my arm was thrown out to the side and ah, well, the 38 Bus is a lot heavier than you'd think."  

"Jesus, Bucky." Steve's face is aghast but his voice is quiet, soft.  

"Well you know, it was my own fault - going so fast and not keeping my head up. At least I didn't hit the little girl," Bucky manages, keeping his tone light.  

"Hmmm." Steve still has his eyes fixed to Bucky's face, but Bucky can't read the expression in the blue depths.  

"Yeah – anyway let's get past the depressing shit now and get down to sushi, yeah? Nat's gunna eat them out of sashimi if we aren't quick." Bucky levers himself up from the chair, moving towards the bedroom door and trying to propel himself away from this conversation as fast as possible.  

Just as Bucky reaches the door frame, Steve's right hand reaches out and gently, so gently, lays itself along Bucky's left shoulder, his thumb resting in the hollow of Bucky's collarbone.  

Bucky steels himself to neither flinch nor melt into the touch.  

Steve squeezes, just once, and lets go.  

They move together out of the apartment and into the stairwell. By the time they reach the street they've returned to their usual comfortable banter and Steve is laughing openly at Bucky's impression of Clint drunk and watching puppy videos on youtube; it involves a lot of fake weeping and Bucky is giving it his all, hoping to get Steve to do one of those little snort-giggles that Bucky loves.  

His shoulder tingles where Steve had touched him for the rest of the night.  

 

\--- 

 

Bucky is laying on the floor in his bedroom, doing the ab exercises that his physical therapist recommended and trying not to look at the mess under his bed.  

 _It's like a_ _sock retirement community under there._  

He's listening to an older Beirut album, grunting out some lines in between crunches, when the loose floorboard in the hallway creaks and makes him turn his head. Steve appears in the doorway, a bright smile on his face.  

"Hey Buck!" Steve shouts over the music.  

Bucky grins back at him. "Hey Steve!" He sits up and lowers the volume on the music, realizing as he does so that a) even after all this time Steve has never been inside his bedroom before, and b) that he is wearing a pair of blue boxer briefs and absolutely nothing else.  

Bucky doesn’t go out of his way to hide his shoulder stump from other people, but he certainly doesn't appear shirtless in public very often. So the fact that Steve can clearly see it now, combined with the fact that Steve is in his _bedroom (_ which Bucky has always considered a fairly intimate thing, to have someone you like in your personal space like this) and Bucky's general nakedness – _Geeze Barnes, why do you gotta buy such tight_ _underwear_ _?_ \- causes Bucky's self-consciousness to rocket from zero to one-hundred in a matter of seconds. "Ahhh," he pauses awkwardly.  

Steve's cheeks go a little red as he obviously comes to the same realizations, and his eyes fix on a point just to Bucky's right as he stutters, "Nat told me to come back here, I ah, I hope that's okay." 

"Oh! Yeah totally, totally. Let me just -" Bucky grabs a tshirt off the dresser and pulls it on as quickly and as gracefully as he can, relieved when he doesn't struggle over much. He instantly relaxes as the fabric covers his left shoulder, taking his time to locate some clean pants while Steve starts to look around the room.  

Bucky slides on some comfortable jeans, scanning the room himself and hoping that he hasn't left anything too embarrassing lying around. Instantly he spots something on the bookshelf, a few feet away from where Steve is perusing the miniature oil painting series that Bucky's friend Maria had made for him last Christmas.   

 _Oh rats._   

He feels himself tense as Steve lets his gaze continue across the wall and -  

 _Don't see it, don't see it, don't see it -_  

"And who is this?" Steve raises his eyebrows, reaching for the teddy bear on it's perch on the bookshelf and gingerly taking the small, fuzzy thing into his giant hands.   

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes. "Dude, you really gunna be that guy who makes fun of a person for keeping their childhood stuffed animal?" he whines, feeling flustered and defensive on account of the little guy.   

"What? No way – I was just wondering what he's doing up on this shelf when clearly he belongs _in the bed_. Not very comfortable up there, Buck."   

Bucky looks at Steve's face, and though it's clear he is amused he isn't teasing. Strangely, this causes Bucky to feel even more flustered and embarrassed, as if this conversation, and Steve's reaction, holds a risk of becoming just a little too cute to bear.   

 _Heh. 'Bear_ _.'_   

 _Christ, you are spending too much time around Steve – the bad puns are catching._  

"He's you know, working surveillance – better view from up there. Gotta have clear sight-lines," Bucky retorts, feeling his face heat in a blush for the millionth time in Steve's presence.   

Steve smile expands another few notches and Bucky almost flinches in response.   

 _Too cute, too cute,_ _ABORT -_  

"Oh yeah?" Steve offers, "Well that sounds like a very important job for such a little bear. What's his name?"   

 _God fucking damnit._  

Bucky's face flares even redder and he suddenly wants to abandon the conversation on grounds of straight humiliation.   

"He doesn't have one," he murmurs, turning away from Steve to hide his face.   

"Bullshit," Steve declares instantly, looking down at the bear as if addressing it directly. "I call bullshit. You've got a name, don't you? Yeah, thought so - he calls bullshit too," Steve comments to Bucky, gesturing with the bear.  

The two of them look at Bucky expectantly.   

"Ugh, _fine_. But I will remind you that I was a CHILD and thus cannot be held accountable." Bucky pauses for a few more seconds before letting the name out on another sigh. "Bucky Bear. His name is Bucky Bear."   

"Inspired." Steve grins smugly at him, eyes twinkling like a goddamn cartoon. "You named your bear after yourself?"   

"No! I did _not_ – I -  My mom just always called him 'Bucky's bear' and I just, I dunno, thought that was his name. And I was little so the 's' got left off and it was - it wasn't the result of boyhood ego-centrism or anything."   

"Mhmm, if you say so, Bucky Bear Sr."   

"Shut it, Rogers. And just what was your childhood stuffed animal called, hmm?"   

Steve returns Bucky Bear to his perch and then rubs the back of his neck, avoiding Bucky's eye. "It was ah, a dog."   

"And it's name was?" Bucky pushes.   

"'Dog.'"   

Bucky barks out a laugh. "So I was narcissistic and you were unimaginative."   

Steve grins back at him. "I guess so. So why's he got a little mask?"   

"Like I said, he's covert ops – can't risk compromising his identity for the sake of the mission."   

"The mission being, of course, keeping the bogeyman at bay."  

"Damn straight. Sub-assignment: cuddles. But only once the perimeter is secure," Bucky adds, his tone as serious as he can make it.    

Now Steve is just staring at him, a dopey little smile tilting his mouth, and Bucky is having a hard time looking back.  

"So ah, why you here so early? I thought the movie doesn't start until nine," Bucky asks.  

"You're right - I just got finished with that label commission quicker than I thought and I wanted to see if you'd wanna try out that new Ethiopian place we talked about," Steve answers him.  

"Ughhhhhhhh," Bucky groans.  

"Is that a yes?" Steve smirks at him.  

"Yessssssssss."  

 

 --- 

 

It's the third week of December when Bucky realizes he hasn't heard from Steve in a few days. It's odd: Bucky sees or at least texts Steve on a daily basis now. The realization of the strangeness of a _lack_ of contact makes Bucky feel both worried and oddly gratified.  

 _Do we really hang out that much? Where is that_ _punk?_  

He texts Steve as he is leaving his shift at the hospital.  

Today 5:14 PM 

Me: dinner at my place tonight? ive got everything for cacio e pepe  

Me: and plz refrain from making the joke that 'everything' for that dish means three ingredients 

Me: i havent done groceries and i lost my fancy-chopping arm. its a cheap shot.  

His phone doesn't make a peep during his long commute home and remains silent while he putters around the apartment, busying himself with some tidying and making a snack.  

He's munching on a peanut butter and blueberry jam sandwich and catching up on an episode of _Bob's Burgers_ when finally -  

Today 7:52 PM  

Steve: **Hey!**   

Steve: **I've probably missed out on the offer of dinner,** **huh?**  

Steve: **W** **as it as intricate as described?**  

Bucky laughs delightedly down at his phone, thumbing out a response.  

Me: ha ha youre hilarious  

Me: yeah I think the ship has sailed on complicated italian fare  

Me: im in the middle of a sandwich  

Steve: **Is it too late to invite myself over for a beer?**  

Steve: **I could use one**  

Me: sure thing stevie. rough day?  

Steve: **Mhmmm**  

Me: common over 

Steve shows up an hour later looking tired and with a six pack of the swanky, locally-brewed stout he likes. Bucky rolls his eyes; Steve's affinity for hipster beverages has made it to the top of Bucky's, admittedly very short, list of Not Really So Favorite Steve Qualities.  

 _And y_ _ou're really scraping the bottom of the charred-oak_ _bourbon barrel for that one, Barnes._  

Steve drops himself down heavily on the couch and Bucky goes to the kitchen to rifle through the silverware drawer for a bottle opener.  

"So what's stressin' you out today, pal?" Bucky shouts back toward the living room.  

"Oh you know, work – got this portrait that's driving me crazy, just can't seem to get the lighting right and the client is being pretty impatient," Steve's rubbing his palms over his eyes as Bucky returns and sits down beside him.  

"Mhmm," Bucky grunts, trying to encourage Steve to just vent it all out.  

 _Shit, he looks rough. Well, I mean, as rough as a the embodiment of human perfection is capable of looking, I suppose. What the heck happened?_  

"And," Steve continues, a bit hesitantly, "some relationship stuff – Peggy, I mean."  

Bucky feels himself tense and chastises himself internally.  

 _He's your friend -_ _if he wants to talk about his love troubles, just let him. Y_ _ou can handle it._  

 _Be a friend, Barnes._  

He raises his eyebrows at Steve in what he hopes is an encouraging gesture.  

"Well," Steve says before taking a swig of his beer and pausing to swallow, his shoulders slightly hunched, "Well, we um, we broke up."  

Bucky feels his expression go completely, entirely blank.  

_Holy..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit short but we are TRANSITIONING into some STUFF, let me tell you. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Stay tune-d (heh).


	8. Track 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so you guys – you guys are just – you reduce MY internal monologue to inarticulate, dying seal noises. In the very best way. I can't thank you enough for reading and all your precious comments. 
> 
> This chapter includes HOLIDAYS and further development into Everyone Has a Crush on Sam Wilson, because DUH, and like, fifteen seconds of pretend boyfriends, if you squint a bit. (Warning: the pretend boyfriend bit happens in conjunction with some verbal-harassment of a gay couple, but no slurs are actually spelled out and it - well you'll see)
> 
> End of chapter notes will include Steve's playlist for Bucky in list format. 
> 
> <3

"We broke up."  

 _…_ _. Shit._  

Buck's head is suddenly and echoingly empty, like a bell without a clapper.  

He gapes at Steve for a moment before getting back on line and stuttering, "What – When – Steve, that _sucks._ "  

He struggles to pull himself together, trying to sort out the mess of sympathy, excitement, anxiety, relief and straight up nausea roiling around inside him.  

 _Okay, OKAY – snap out of it, t_ _his is about_ him _, not about you and how much you love him – oh my God you_ love _him – and now he's -_  

"What happened?" he manages weakly.  

"Nothing _happened_ , really. Well, it's about to happen – she's moving back to England. A few weeks from now, actually. Got a job."  

"What? How long have you known?"  

Steve shrugs slightly, looking dejected but somehow resigned. "Months," he sighs, "she sent her application in the summer, heard back in September."  

"And you aren't going with her?" Bucky asks him, feeling completely unmoored at the thought of Steve moving to Europe, away from him.  

"No, I'm not." Steve sits up a little, rubbing his hands over his face and ruffling up his hair.  

He looks exhausted and Bucky squashes the hope and excitement inside him, choosing to feel only concern for his friend.  

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks softly, wanting badly to alleviate Steve's obvious unhappiness, but not sure how to go about doing so.  

"Yeah, I – yeah. It's like this I guess," Steve starts, settling himself into the couch once more, "I've always thought of relationships as a walk down a long road; you start walking together and the destination is so far in the distance you can't even see it, you barely even have to imagine it – and if you do you can hope that maybe it’s the same place for the both of you. And so you keep moving along, making the trip together." He pauses, taking another sip of beer.  

Bucky just sits and listens, hoping that is what Steve wants from him.  

"And for me and Peg – well about a year ago the horizon got closer and we could see a fork in the road - far ahead, but you know, there. And the closer we got the more obvious it became that our destinations aren't the same place after all – that the fork was splitting the road and we'd each have to go on alone once we reached it." Steve sighs sadly and Bucky grits his teeth with the effort it takes to not reach out and touch him.  

"But we kept on walking, right up to the fork – we're stubborn like that, me and Peg," Steve breaks off, shooting a small, soft smile at Bucky.  

"Yeah, I noticed that about you, at least," Bucky says, mimicking Steve's expression and tone.   

"But anyway, we've arrived. Peggy's got a job offer in London. It was a long application process and it was never a guarantee that she would get it, even though we both _knew_ she would, she's brilliant like that – just like we both knew the entire time that I wouldn't leave New York when she did. It's perfect for her and a big step in her career and I'm so, so proud of her. But I can't leave," Steve says, looking guilty. "We talked about long distance, but neither one of us are ones for pretending – never really considered it." He stares blankly ahead for a minute. "It's just time. Separate directions and all. And it's no one's fault and it can't really be helped, and I'm beyond grateful for all the miles we got in, but," he pauses, voice breaking a little, and gives Bucky a heart-breaking smile, "It was so wonderful to walk with her, you know?" 

"I know," Bucky whispers, aching for him, "You're both incredibly special people. I'm sorry, Steve. It was obvious how great a team the two of you were."  

"Thanks, Buck. And it's okay, really – I know it will be. Peg and I are still on the same team, always will be. It's just time to keep walking. It'll be fine." Steve's expression clears a little, but the weariness is still heavy around his eyes. 

"Doesn't make the steps any easier though," Bucky assures him, "Even expected change is still an adjustment, and adjustments take time." He shrugs his left shoulder for emphasis, letting the empty sleeve of his henley flap.  

"I know," Steve sighs, "I know."  

"Want to keep talking? Or do you need a distraction? _Bob's Burgers_?" Bucky prods him gently.  

"Oh man, I could use some Tina right now. Pull it up." Steve grins, raising the beer bottle to his lips again.  

Bucky starts up an episode and they watch in companionable silence.  

Bucky's mind whirrs and he finds it hard to focus on the screen, his eyes wanting to find Steve's face instead.  

' _Steve is single_ ' plays like a mantra in his head and he shifts around uncomfortably, hoping Steve doesn’t notice his increasing agitation.  

 _Well, so what? You_ _gunna_ _do something about it?_  

 _They_ _JUST broke up, it's been like sixty seconds, you obviously can't -_  

 _Y_ _ou probably couldn't even handle -_  

 _Steve probably doesn't even see you that way -_  

 _But what if - b_ _ut what about - w_ _hat if?_  

 _What if, what if, what if?_  

Bucky's always thought of life as a ride on a train; people get on and off at will. The destination isn't decided and there are plenty to choose from. Bucky knows he's still on the car, rattling down the track, and he isn’t sure if he's ever getting off, if they're ever going to arrive at his stop. And if he's going to the end of the line, he can only hope that he doesn't have to keep riding on alone.  

He looks at Steve's still melancholy face and his heart flips over in a mess of sympathy and longing.  

Then Steve looks up at him, his face softening from its rictus of sadness, a small smile tipping the corners of his lips.  

 _I wouldn't mind making the trip with you, pal. I wouldn't mind at all._  

 

\--- 

 

The weeks go by and the reality of Steve's single status finally starts to settle in to Bucky's mind. Unfortunately, the other side of this reality finds Bucky doing absolutely jack shit about it.  

 _It's too soon_ , he tells himself. _Steve probably wouldn't even be interested_ , he tells himself. _You'd only screw it up_ , he tells himself.  

He tells himself a lot of things, and he's pretty convincing about it. So convincing that by the end of December he's managed to reinstate Operation Just Friends and has tamped down his crush on Steve to a once-again-manageable level.  

 _Almost, anyway._  

He's a goddamn coward, and he knows it. He also knows that Steve, seemingly at ease with, if still grieved about, the demise of his relationship, has yet to make any overt or covert moves on Bucky either.  

 _What do you expect him to do, jump you a week after he ends a six-year commitment? He wouldn't do that even if he WERE interested._  

 _W_ _hich he isn't, obviously._  

Bucky spends a lot of his time these days groaning internally, which he thinks is entirely healthy, thanks very much.  

 _You're a complete disaster._  

Bucky is returning home after a grocery run, pulling his metal old-lady cart behind him up the stairs with more effort than he'd like to admit.  

 _Why do we live somewhere without an elevator, for goodness sakes._  

He unlocks the door and pulls himself and the cart through with a groan of relief.  

He spots Nat and Clint curled up together on the couch, talking softly and closely to each other in an entirely suspicious and nerve-wracking way, a notebook covered in scribbles open on their laps. 

"What are you guys up to?" Bucky asks them, feeling instantly wary.  

"Hey Buck!" Clint greets him. "What's a polite and totally respectful way to ask someone if they'd like to have a threesome?" he frowns down at the notebook in concentration.  

"Wha...."  

"Clint has a crush on Sam, and we were thinking -" Nat starts.  

"Is no one I know heterosexual?" Bucky questions to himself out loud.  

"Statistically unlikely," Natasha states, also focusing her attention back on the paper between her and Clint.  

"What can I say, Bucky-boo, we're here, we're queer – and we are out of beer, tell me you grabbed a six pack," Clint's eyes fasten on Bucky's full grocery cart.  

"Yeah, there's a pack of Red Stripe at the bottom," Bucky answers him absently and Clint fist pumps. "Seriously, though, Sam?"   

"He's hottttttt," Clint groans, "Do you think he'd be interested?"  

"Ah, I'm actually pretty sure he's exclusively into dudes," Bucky answers him, his eyes sliding to Nat.  

"I wouldn't mind just watching," Nat shrugs - totally and completely unhelpfully.  

 _Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it -_  

"Jesus, Nat, don't just - I don't need those mental images, alright?" Bucky splutters, "Plus I'm _sure_ he is exclusive with Riley, sorry."  

"Oh, too bad," Clint whines, sounding bummed but not overly put out.  

"That's alright babe, I'm sure there are other attractive, experimental fish in the sea," Nat pats Clint's tousled head before getting up from the couch and taking the cart from Bucky's hand, pulling it toward the kitchen.  

"Yeah but probably not ones that are also as into birdwatching as I am," Clint responds with a sigh.  

"You've got some weird kinks, man," Bucky assures him, flopping down onto the couch at his side. "So," he adds, "are you guys in an open relationship now?" He gestures toward the kitchen where Nat is stashing things in the fridge.  

"What? Oh, um, not romantically I mean, but sexually - I guess so? We're up for experimenting, if an opportunity arises," Clint explains, looking a little puzzled, as if this had been entirely obvious.  

"Hmmm," Bucky grunts, wondering to himself if he'd ever feel comfortable with a situation like that in his own love life. He thinks it would be pretty difficult; the physical aspects of a relationship carry a lot of weight for him, they always have. He's not sure he could share that side of himself with more than one person at a time. Still, it definitely tells a lot about the level of trust between Nat and Clint, and he finds himself oddly proud and a little jealous of their openness with each other.  

 _A_ _nd other people, potentially._  

 _Don't. t_ _hink. a_ _bout. i_ _t._  

He also _does not_ think about Steve in conjunction with these musings on sexual experimentation. He definitely doesn’t.  

 _Oh sweet lord._ _These two are fucking MENACES_ _._  

Nat emerges from the kitchen with three open beer bottles and passes two to Clint and Bucky in turn. She sits down close to Clint again, fixing Bucky with a stare.  

"What now?" Bucky narrows his eyes at her, "I am not propositioning anyone for you guys, you can figure that stuff out on your own."  

"Are we going to talk about Steve?" she questions, ignoring his comment and completely blindsiding him.  

"What about – I don't – No," he squeaks out. 

 _Christ, she knows everything. Why am I even_ _surprised_ _at this point?_  

"Too soon," he grumbles firmly.  

"Too soon for Steve or for you?" she raises an eyebrow at him.  

"Both," he responds sheepishly, looking down into his lap and away from her penetrating gaze.  

"Okay, James. But I'm here when you're ready." She gets back up, heading back toward the kitchen. She pauses briefly when she passes by Bucky's end of the couch, pressing her small hand against his shoulder and saying softly, "Steve will be too, you know."  

Bucky pretends not to understand what she means; the hope hurts too much.  

 

\--- 

 

Christmas arrives and with it the unbelievable realization that Steve Rogers has never seen _It's a_ _Wonderful Life_. Bucky can absolutely  _not handle_ this, and a few days before the holiday he sits Steve down in his apartment, pulls up Netflix, and sets about correcting Steve's horrifying ignorance of perhaps the greatest movie of all time.  

Bucky may or may not still have the movie poster on the back of his closet door, a leftover from his dorm-room days.  

As they watch, Steve laughs in all the right places, literally clutches his heart during the telephone scene, and cries unabashedly at the end. It's wonderful – _Heh_ – and Bucky feels unaccountably pleased with himself on behalf of Steve, the film, and the Frank Capra himself.  

In the days that follow Steve won't stop texting Bucky random lines from the movie and, judging by all the exasperated texts from Sam, whistling 'Buffalo Gals' at every available moment.  

Bucky continues to feel pleased.  

On the afternoon of the 25th Bucky is at his parent's house across town, relaxing in front of the television with his sister, Becca. Their family being nominally Jewish and having celebrated Hanukkah a few weeks before, the holiday for them is mostly an excuse to veg-out and eat copious amounts of dessert. Bucky is pretty sure that's how most Christians celebrate Christmas anyhow.  

Half-way through _Home Alone 2: Lost in New York_ , Bucky's phone vibrates.  

Today 12:21 PM  

Steve: **Merry Christmas, Bedford Falls!**  

Me: merry christmas, you old building and loan, you old pal!  

Steve: **Merry Christmas, Emporium!**  

Me: merry christmas, movie house!  

Steve: **Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter!**   

Me: WHOA uncalled for steve  

Me: i have nothing in common with that old grinch 

Me: take it back 

Steve: **If the scowl and the elaborately-carved,** **wooden** **wheelchair fits...**  

Me: THAT GUY IS EVIL  

Me: im just crochety. theres a difference  

Me: and he has like a butler. i definitely don’t have a butler.  

Steve: **A** **lright, on the** **butler** **basis alone, I take it back.**  

Me: you are the rudest little shit 

Steve: **:p**  

Steve: **Am I a nerd if I watch it again tonight?**  

Me: yes a thousand times yes you are a huge nerd  

Me: but it has nothing to do with that classic film  

Me: so carry on 

Steve: **You're not funny.**  

Me: im a little funny  

Steve: **F** **unny looking :p**  

Me: annnnnnnnd you've officially regressed to elementary school level comebacks  

Me: just go and watch the amazing movie I was kind enough to introduce you to 

Me: you complete toddler  

Steve: **Alright I will**  

Steve: **A** **nd yeah,** **seriously amazing. I mean there are definitely some problems in there, with all the yelling and the bush bit -** **geeze George**  

Steve: **But it's literally heart-warming** **. A** **lso Jimmy Stewart is such a babe.**  

Me: THE BABLIEST  

Steve: **Okay I'll watch it when I get home. Maybe twice.**  

Me: where are you now? 

Steve: **Church**  

Bucky smiles to himself; he knows that Steve attends mass at his mom's church every weekend, that it's important to him to honor her memory at the very least. But he can’t help teasing Steve, just a little bit.  

Me: you are such a good little christian boy stevie  

Me: i bet all the church ladies try to set you up with their very proper god-fearing daughters  

Steve: **Their sons too – we are a very enlightened congregation, thank God.**  

Steve: **LITERALLY**  

Steve: **LITERALLY THANK GOD**   

Steve: **IM IN CHURCH RIGHT NOW**  

Steve: **STOP MAKING ME WANT TO TEXT YOU ABOUT ROMANTIC, PROBABLY PAGAN CHRISTMAS** **MOVIES. YOU ARE A BAD INFLUENCE.**  

Me: STOP YELLING IN CHURCH 

Me: and how can it be pagan if its a christmas movie? it has an ANGEL IN IT  

Steve: **Y** **ou've got a point there.**  

Me: get back to the service, goody2shoes 

Me: text me later 

Steve: **K**  

Much later that evening Bucky is still lounging on the couch with Becca, watching _Miracle on 34_ _th_ _Street_ and binging on their mom's gingersnap cookies, when his phone buzzes again. He tries not to look too eager when he reaches for it, hoping to avoid receiving one of Becca's irritatingly knowing smirks.   

Today 10:45 PM  

Steve: **I got the stink-eye from Mrs. Green because of you.**  

Me: you texted me first!  

Steve: **Whatever.**  

Steve: **I got back in her good graces by telling her I was just trying to convince a friend to start attending service**  

Steve: **She's expecting to meet you next week.**  

Me: um yeah not happening  

Me: unless you are coming with me to temple  

Me: on the offchance I actually remember to go  

Steve: **I'm in.**  

Me: i hope you like getting your cheeks pinched by little old ladies  

Steve: **Which cheeks? :p**   

Me: im embarrassed for you right now.  

Me: also you just made me spit out my tea  

Steve: **I think that makes you the embarrassing one.**   

Me: piss off punk 

Steve: **J** **erk**  

Me: asshole  

Steve: **Asshat**  

Steve: **a Santa-** **asshat, for festivity**  

Me: its yarmulke, you ignorant gentile you  

Steve: **:p**  

Me: stop using that emoji I hate that one  

Steve: **:p :p :p**  

Me: good grief go to bed or something  

Steve: **I can't I just got to Zuzu's petals**  

Me: are you crying yet  

Steve: **DUH I'm not completely DEVOID OF FEELING**  

Me: call me mr. potter again and i swear to god  

Steve: **:p**  

Bucky looks up then, obviously grinning openly and probably stupidly, judging by the heights Becca's left eyebrow has reached as she looks at him.  

"Did your boyfriend make a funny?" she asks.  

"He's not my boyfriend," Bucky argues quickly.  

"Yeah, so I've heard from you like, eighty times today. Ever hear the one about 'protesting too much?' Shakespeare I think." 

"Alright, English Major, I don't need you analyzing my subtext."  

"Oh it's pretty clearly _text_ at this point," she waves a hand at his phone, which chooses this moment to buzz yet again, clearly displaying **Message from Steve Rogers** across its screen. "And _you_ were an English Major, Buck, so don't even start."  

Bucky mutters under his breath, clenching his fingers in his lap to stop himself from reaching for his phone on the cushion between them.  

"Go ahead, check your phone, I know you want to," Becca smirks, smug.  

Bucky sighs in exasperation but does, retrieving the picture message from Steve – a shot of his laptop screen, paused on a still of George Bailey, face alight with joy as he runs down the stairs toward Mary and covered in small children.  

A second later another text pops up. 

Steve: **I'm in love with a fictional character.**  

Bucky thinks of Steve and his ridiculously perfect perfection -  _T_ _aste in pretentious beer aside_ - and rubs his hand across his face, wondering if meeting Steve was the luckiest or unluckiest fortuity of his life.  

 _You and me both, pal._  

Two more messages from Steve: 

Steve: **Nevermind you are definitely more of an Uncle Billy than a Mr. Potter**  

Steve: **With the glasses and the forgetting your keys everywhere and the horrible drunken singing**   

 _Nevermind, Steve is stupid and I hate him._  

Me: youre stupid and i hate you.  

Steve: **:p**  

\--- 

 

Bucky spends New Years Eve with Nat, Sam and Steve (Clint still visiting family in Chicago) at Steve's apartment, eating weed brownies and marathoning John Hughes' movies. They collectively groan at the cheesiest parts and have a vehement but short-lived argument on behalf of John Cryer's Duckie, ultimately deciding that his lip-sync performance of 'Try A Little Tenderness' is the best part of the movie, hands down.  

At midnight Sam skypes with Riley as the others look on, giggling helplessly and catcalling. The naked emotion on Sam's face as he looks at the man on the screen makes Bucky's chest ache, though, and he has to look away before his laughter gets a little soggy around the edges.  

He avoids looking at Steve for a little while after, worried he will give himself away.  

Then Nat pulls up _Planes, Trains & Automobiles_ and Bucky gets thoroughly distracted.  

It's a great way to start the year.  

 

\--- 

 

Bucky and Steve are walking together on particularly freezing Friday night, heading toward the bar Nat had told them to meet her at, when they notice some commotion up the street.  

Three guys are harassing a young couple – two boys that can't be much older than eighteen, holding gloved hands and looking frightened – following close behind them and calling them names that make Bucky's figurative hackles rise.  

"Fuckin' jerks," he hears Steve murmur under his breath, before, "Go with this for a minute."  

And suddenly Steve's massive left hand is enveloping Bucky's right tightly.  

 _What the -_  

Steve is holding his hand. Bucky's brain blanks out and for a few seconds all his awareness is relocated to the firm, dry press of palm to palm.  

 _What – oh my God – what -_  

But Steve isn't looking at Bucky, he's looking straight forward toward the knot of confrontation up the sidewalk, his face as stern as Bucky has ever seen it.  

"Hey," Steve's firm, loud voice calls out, obviously addressing the three tormentors, "You gunna leave these kids alone or are we going to have a problem?"  

As a unit the three thugs turn around, the tallest one grumbling, "Mind your own fuckin' business, you fuckin'-" before actually catching sight of Bucky and Steve and trailing off.  

The penny finally dropping, Bucky quells his internal hysteria and grips Steve's hand tighter. He pulls his face into a scowl and tries to look as intimidating as he possibly can, attempting to communicate with a glare that yes, he might be missing an arm, but that's only because he ripped it off himself before beating someone over the head with it.  

He isn't sure if it works, but the idiots do shrink back a bit.  

"I'm choosing to officially _make_ this my business," Steve continues, and his stern demeanor and harsh tone brook no argument, "So I'll ask you again - we got a problem?"  

Clearly cowed by Steve's formidable presence, the three men mutter briefly to each other before skittering past Steve and Bucky and continuing down the sidewalk in the opposite direction they had been walking.  

The sidewalk is quiet for a long moment, the susurus of traffic on wet-pavement the only sound.  

"Ah, thanks," one of the younger boys in the pair mutters quietly.  

Steve just nods to him in a 'No problem, son' sort of gesture and watches as the couple moves away.  

He still hasn't let go of Bucky's hand.  

"Well," Bucky wheezes after a few more seconds of silence, trying not to let his voice quiver, "That was ah, kind of intense." 

"Jerks," Steve bites out harshly, looking down the sidewalk toward where the three men had fled.  

"True. But why the, ah..." Bucky looks down at their joined hands.  

"Oh!" Steve abruptly lets go and Bucky's heart deflates at the loss of contact. "I thought it would get the message of how offensive we found them across more succinctly. Sorry – I should have asked beforehand, shouldn't have just dragged you into it – it was a snap decision."  

It's hard to tell under the orange glow of the streetlights if Steve is blushing or not. Bucky isn't sure whether to hope he is.  

"No ah, that's okay. They were being dickbags," Bucky offers, shrugging as nonchalantly as he can.  

"Yeah – and you know they wouldn't have started on _us_ if they'd seen us holding hands first – they were only picking on those kids 'cause they were so young and tiny – typical bullies, going for what they think is an easy shot. I can't stand any of that shit," Steve spits, getting riled once more.  

"They weren't _that_ tiny," Bucky argues, hoping to calm him somewhat.  

"Tinier than us."  

Bucky looks Steve up and down theatrically, pausing on his massive shoulder-span. "Yeah, I guess so," Bucky comments with a grin, "You went all 'Justice and Whoop-Ass Steve' just now – no wonder those dudes ran. That why Tony calls you 'Captain?' You looked very commanding."  

"Shut up," Steve blurts out, and his blush is obvious now, "I had to do _something_ – those kids don't deserve -"  

"No, they don't. Come on, Captain, I need that beer." 

They continue on down the block, hurrying against the chill in the air. Bucky presses his fingernails into his palm as they walk.  

 

\--- 

 

It's mid-March and Bucky is folding laundry in his room, belting along to _Etta James' Greatest Hits,_  when Nat enters.  

"James -"  

"AND AFTER ALL I'VE BEEN THROUGH-" 

"JAMES!"  

"I HAD TO MOVE, OHHHHH LORDDDDD, NEXT DOOR TO THE BLUES -"  

"Barnes!" Nat shouts again, "Steve texted you - your phone was on the coffee table." She holds out Bucky's iPhone to him, rolling her eyes at his gyrations.  

"Oh!" Bucky leaves off dancing, grabbing the phone with what he hopes is not pathetic speed.  

Judging by Nat's further eye-rolling, these hopes are unfounded.  

Today 3:41 PM 

Steve: **Buck! Do you want to go on an adventure?**  

Me: DUH where to? 

Steve: **Up north a ways – I've got a potential job** **to design a logo for a little B &B upstate ** 

Steve: **I have to go up and check out the property for reference and to meet with the owner, and I hate driving alone**  

Steve: **So this is my subtle way of requesting your company.**  

Me: im so in. when are we going?  

Steve: **You've got Monday off right?**  

Me: yessir  

Steve: **Okay great, Monday then -** **Sam said we could borrow his car**  

Me: awesome 

Me: question though: will there be snacks? 

Steve: **HELLO, DUH**  

Steve: **A** **nd I already made a mix for the drive**  

Me: alright i am DEFINITELY in  

A few minutes later Bucky's phone starts to ring: 

 **Call from Steve Rogers**  

He swipes to answer, pulling the phone up to his ear and saying "What did you change your mind already?" by way of greeting.  

"Hey! Well, maybe -" Steve starts, "turns out Sam has to use his car on Monday to bring his mom grocery shopping." 

"What a fuckin' angel, that one." 

"Right? But anyway, no car. You free any other day next week?" 

"Shit, no actually – full week planned at the hospital. Rachel is on vacation," Bucky says regretfully.  

"Rats. Well you know, the weather is so mild this year I was thinking ah, would you maybe mind taking the bike instead?" Steve asks, a little hesitantly.  

 _Oh fuckin' Christ. Sitting behind you on your fuckin' motorcycle?_  

 _Would I mind?!_  

Bucky thinks he might die, actually. The idea is not wholly unpleasant.  

 _What a way to go..._  

Realizing it's been several seconds and he still hasn't spoken, Bucky hurredly responds, "Oh, um, yeah that'd be cool." He coughs, hoping he doesn't sound like a creepy creep with a thousand-mile-wide crush on his clueless best friend. "That'd be cool." 

 _Understatement of the year._  

They agree on a time and place to meet up on Monday morning. As soon as they hang up Bucky regrets every life decision he has made leading up to this moment.  

_What are you doing to yourself, Barnes?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it obvious that It's a Wonderful Life is my favorite movie? No? Hold on let me go add sixteen more references...
> 
> Finder's Fee Mix 
> 
> 1) Tezeta – Mulatu Astatke  
> 2) Don't Think Twice, It's Alright – Odetta  
> 3) Maybe Baby - The Crickets  
> 4) Meet Me In the City – Junior Kimbrough  
> 5) We Never Argue – Lambchop  
> 6) Brand New Day - Van Morrison  
> 7) Better Than - Lake Street Dive  
> 8) My Journey To The Sky - Sister Rosetta Tharpe  
> 9) Judgement - Iron & Wine  
> 10) Baby - Donnie and Joe Emerson 
> 
> SO this mix, in the context of the story, was made in the Fall - so be advised that it might make you think of the smell of wet wool and dying leaves. And it is July. So.  
> Steve also created this mix for a Bucky who was then a stranger to him, and it was 100% for fun and not suggestive of anything, in any way. In retrospect, however...


	9. Track 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I cannot bestow you all with grateful hugs in person - seriously guys YOU'RE ALL SO NICE ITS CRAZY - this chapter comes to you bearing gifts and tidings of great joy!  
> Gifts may or may not (spoiler alert: they totally do) take the form of the following trope-tastic scenarios: 
> 
> A) Two doofuses share one motorcycle  
> B) Up all night talking ^Patent Pending (jk)  
> C) Romantic advice from a Cool Old Dame 
> 
> Not necessarily in that order.  
> (I will have you know that I spent an excessive amount of time trying to think of puns playing of 'frankensence' and/or 'myrhh' but that dog just would. not. hunt.) 
> 
> <3

Bucky meets Steve at his apartment at an ungodly 8:00 AM on Monday morning. The mental preparations he'd coached himself through all weekend, in addition to the fact that he is up before ten on his day off, have him feeling pretty calm and collected. Or maybe he's just still comatose.  

 _Coffee. Why didn't I make coffee._  

 _All I can think about is coffee._  

 _Hey, Steve._  

"Mghhhh," Bucky grunts at Steve when he pops out the door of the apartment building, sidling up to Bucky on the sidewalk and looking way too chipper to be allowed. 

"Well 'goodmorning' to you as well," Steve greets him, and his smile is 50 watts too bright, even through Bucky's dark sunglasses.  

Steve pulls a black backpack from his shoulder and unzips it, reaching inside and pulling out a large, green metal thermos.  

"Will this help?" Steve asks, handing the thermos to Bucky.  

Bucky opens it and a waft of Steve's fancy French-pressed dark roast hits him in the face like a welcome slap.  

"You're an angel," Bucky breathes out to Steve, not having the energy to be embarrassed by the depth of feeling in his words.  

"Yeah, well let's hope I'm a more coordinated angel than Clarence, or we'll have trouble with the bike." 

"Dnnn mgeh fnn clerrah," Bucky mumbles back, his nose still buried in the mouth of the thermos.  

"What?" 

"I said, 'don't make fun of Clarence.' He was only tryin' his best." 

"Alright, buddy, take a few more sips and we gotta get on the road – it's an hour and forty minutes, give or take."  

Bucky downs a few more hot, blessed mouthfuls of coffee before handing the thermos back to Steve and following him toward where the bike is parked.  

Steve makes Bucky put on the backpack, as Steve's back is about to be preoccupied with Bucky's chest – _Oh god, there isn't enough_ _caffeine_ _in the world_ – and then reaches toward Bucky's jacketed front to clip the buckle from each strap together just below Bucky's collarbone.  

Bucky shoots Steve an unamused look.  

"What? Hey, it's gotta be secure – my drawing tablet is in there."  

"Just get on the bike, Mom," Bucky grumbles at him.  

Steve does, handing the second helmet to Bucky before donning his own.  

Bucky surveys the sight before him through the helmet's visor: Steve's broad back, angles still obvious through the padding of his canvas jacket, Steve's strong thighs straddling the worn leather seat, the chrome hardware sparkling beautifully in the morning sun.  

 _Good fuckin'_ _grief_ _._  

Not wanting Steve to question any hesitation, Bucky makes quick work of mounting the bike behind him, scooching up close and sliding his right arm under Steve's, wrapping it tightly across Steve's chest.  

 _Steve's very firm, very warm, very close chest._  

 _UGH._  

"You good?" comes the muffled sound of Steve's voice through two layers of helmet.  

Bucky just tightens his grip a bit in response, not trusting his voice not to squeak, and Steve pats Bucky's hand briefly before starting the bike with a resounding roar.  

They push off from the pavement and Bucky pulls his boots up into the footrests and now -  

 _Now your thighs are pressed along the backs of Steve's._  

 _That's totally cool._  

 _That's totally cool and in NO WAY arousing._  

 _Barnes, if you get an erection while on this bike I will personally cut your dick off._  

 _What do you mean_ personally _? You are talking to YOURSELF – who else is_ _gunna_ _do it?!_  

 _Oh my God, I'm officially_ _lo_ _sing_ _it._  

Steve veers right at the end of the block, the movement causing Bucky to shift close enough to feel the muscles tensing in Steve's back as he leans in to the turn.  

 _This is going to be a long ride._  

Traffic is light and by the time they reach the Saw Mill River Parkway Bucky has himself under control. Turns out it's hard to worry about potentially embarrassing – _I think you mean_ _defin_ _itely_ _embarrassing_ \- boners while you are holding on for dear life while zooming down a paved, rather wind-y road at what feels like warp speed.  

About twenty minutes in Bucky starts to relax; it's obvious that Steve is a careful driver and that he is being extra conscientious of the fact that Bucky only has one arm to hold on with, taking the turns as easily as possible and staying just below the speed limit.  

After a half-hour has passed, Bucky starts to enjoy himself immensely. The feel of the bike vibrating with life under him, the road skating smoothly past, the consuming howl of the wind filling his head and chest – he's never experienced this kind of rush. He almost wishes he could take the helmet off in order to feel the violent wind tearing at his hair and filling his speechless mouth.  

His proximity to Steve is its own kind of demanding energy - a shiver in his blood that gives him an unbelievable urge to press his face between Steve's shoulder blades, to get as close as humanly possible.  

 _Maybe the helmet is for the best._  

For all his foreboding regarding the trip, Bucky finds himself entirely disappointed when Steve starts to slow their speed at to the two-hour mark, ultimately turning into a long driveway flanked by massive, still bare-limbed trees. They've arrived.  

Dismounting somewhat stiffly from the bike, Steve and Bucky share matching, wide grins as they cast their eyes around the property before them.  

 _It's beautiful._  

Though devoid of snow the landscape clearly has yet to free itself from winter's clutches, and the vista of gnarled, naked tree branches that cover the rolling hills around them is starkly prepossessing.  

The house itself is charming: a large, clapboard-sided colonial that has wedged itself comfortably into the natural scenery, all weather-worn white boards and climbing, if currently dead, vines. A scattering of similarly aesthetic outbuildings dot the hillside around the main house.  

"Hello!" a call comes from the direction of the barn.  

An elderly man and woman approach them, introducing themselves as Maggie, the owner, and Bradley, her brother and current manager of the property.  

They get a brief tour of the grounds, Maggie and Bradley explaining in turn the history of the estate and the story of Maggie's ownership; she'd bought the property with her late husband in the seventies, converting it first into an artists retreat and then into a bed and breakfast.  

"Have you boys had your own breakfast yet?" Maggie asks as they return to the main house, leading them through a side door and into a lived-in but clean kitchen.  

Bucky is charmed by Maggie's robust yet warm personality – _She's like a rock and roll_ _Babuska_ \- and immediately makes himself at home, sitting across from her at the long table and taking a plate heaped with a generous slice of apple-raspberry pie from her offering hand.  

 _Breakfast._ _p_ _ie._  

 _B_ _est adventure ever._  

Bradley seems eager to take Steve back out to the grounds in order to scope out the specific view of the house he's envisioned for the logo design, and after a quick bite the two of them disappear out the door with Steve's tablet in tow.  

Bucky remains at the table with Maggie, feeling comfortable and lazy and filled to the brim with pie. Maggie puts on a pot for tea, returns to her seat, and fixes Bucky with a shrewd stare.  

 _Oh God. Why are women always looking at me like that?_  

"So what's up with you and the wholesome beefcake over there?" she asks, tipping her head toward the door Steve had exited through. 

 _Jesus C_ _hrist_ _, how obvious am I? We've been here for like an hour._  

"What do you mean?" Bucky shifts uneasily in the seat of his wooden chair.  

"You've got that serious-pining look about you – like Heathcliff wandering the moors."  

 _Well that answers that question._  

"Yikes, please don't tell me it's that bad," Bucky groans.  

"Well maybe not that bad," Maggie concedes, "Less tragic specter, more sad puppy dog." 

"You're a very comforting lady." Bucky scowls theatrically at her.  

Maggie laughs openly at him. "What can I say, dear, it's easier to spot the look when you're a sad puppy yourself." 

"You?" 

"Max died eight years ago and I still miss him every second of every day. If I had moors to wander in his honor, I would." 

"I'm sorry," Bucky murmurs softly, noticing for the first time the lines of grief around her kind eyes, the slightly forced nature of her smile.  

"Thanks, dear. And I do apologize for being a bit of a buzzkill here. You've got me on a bad day – I'm enormously grateful for what we had, all the time, but some days the loss of it is overwhelming. Today the missing has the upper hand."  

"You can keep teasing me about Steve if you want," Bucky offers gently.  

"Yes, let's do that," she continues quickly, her eyes glinting in a way that makes Bucky regret his suggestion ever so slightly. "So, you love him? Seems so, from the way you look at him." 

Bucky sighs, figuring it couldn't hurt to spill the beans a little bit; Maggie is a stranger to him and therefore unlikely to be as ruthless in her scrutiny as say, Nat.  

 _At least I hope so._  

"Yeah, I – yeah," he admits.  

"So tell him." 

"That easy, huh?" Bucky raises a cynical eyebrow.  

"Damn straight. You gotta act on these things, you know. Can't pass up an opportunity for a deep love. It's one of the best things we can do. Max was certainly the best thing I ever did – and don't you dare smirk, young man  -"  

"I wasn't gunna!" 

"And experiencing his loss was certainly the worst." 

The naked grief on her face is so apparent at these words that Bucky can't help but ask, "So was it – was it worth -"  

"Was it worth it? Loving him?" she finishes for him, giving him an unreadable look before continuing, "Abso-fucking-lutely." 

Bucky can't help but chuckle at that and he and Maggie share warm smiles, all three of their hands cupping the warm mugs between them.  

Maggie gives him a considering look, tilting her head slightly to the side. "They aren't all going to be good days – not when you're with someone, not when you're alone. I think you know that. But I'll tell you what: I owe that man more good days than I can count. And I know he'd say the same of me, if he were here." She pauses to take a sip of her tea. "It wasn't always easy - it wasn't always great or even good - but it was always worth it. Still is, even on a big missing day. Even on the worst day I ever had."  

"You're so _sure_ _-_  How do you do that?" Bucky wonders aloud, incredulous.  

"What do they say, 'death and taxes?' If you're waiting on absolutes, all you're gunna do is wait, dear. It's not about knowing for sure, it's about _knowing_. The big lessons you don't learn just the once - you learn them over and over. Sometimes daily. This is one area where my years do count for wisdom; I've got the experience, and I'm confident in that."  

They pause again, trading significant looks.  

"He looks at you too, you know," Maggie states.  

Bucky isn't sure what to do with that information, so he stays quiet.  

"Does he see you?" she continues.  

"What do you mean?" Bucky asks again, feeling his eyebrows draw together.  

"It's one thing to find someone who looks at you – it's an entirely different thing altogether to find someone who _sees_ you. Do you see _him_?"  

Bucky takes this question in, trying to digest it. "How, how do you – what's the difference?" He feels obtuse and suddenly very naive.  

"Looking at someone is just about acknowledging their importance. Seeing someone is about choosing the reality of their person over the idea you have of them in your own head." 

Bucky feels himself flush, remembering Brock and the other mistakes he'd made in the past.  

 _Where was this sage_ _two years ago?_   

"So, do you see him?" Maggie questions again.  

Bucky thinks about Steve. About his bright lights, his insecurities, his strength. About his playfulness, his sadness, his giant, gentle heart. He thinks about all of the things he doesn't know about Steve, about the things he'll never be able to.  

"I – I hope so," Bucky answers her, the words thick in his throat, "I hope so."  

"Well, that means enough to me," she declares, and the conviction in her voice makes him want to smile and cry at the same time.  

He settles for a watery, closed-mouth combination of the two.  

They finish their tea in a promising, musical kind of silence. The sunlight comes through the windows at a slant and illuminates the dust motes dancing in the air around them.  

 

\---  

 

After another few hours of tea and conversation once Steve and Bradley return to the kitchen, Bucky and Steve make their goodbyes and walk back to the bike.  

The light is thinning as they reach the city, the evening traffic piling in around them and more street lights ticking on with every block they pass.  

Bucky holds tight to Steve's middle, trying to soak up every last second of this closeness and feeling a frisson of tension crack between them everytime Steve's body shifts.  

Bucky's mind turns over and over with the miles they drive. He thinks about the permanent lines of loss on Maggie's face. About her total conviction, even in her pain.  

Bucky would give anything to know that kind of certainty.  

Looking at Steve's face through the window of his visor in one rearview mirror - the hard jaw set in concentration as he navigates the streets, the tiny lines of past pain and laughter around his eyes, the pink mouth that's always so quick to smile - Bucky thinks maybe he could.  

They pull up in front of Bucky's building just as the sun is setting. Steve's golden hair is ridiculously tousled from pulling the helmet off, but Bucky can't bring himself to tease. Steve is glowing in the soft light and Bucky feels it like a punch in the gut.  

He feels the tension between them pull again as they stand on the sidewalk looking at each other, barely talking.  

Bucky recalls his dad teaching him to make tin can phones as a kid, instructing him that the string needed to be tautened _just so_.  

He can only hope that this strange expectation between him and Steve will pull tight enough to eventually transmit words, but not so tight that it snaps.  

"Come over for a movie night tomorrow?" Steve asks.  

"Absolutely," Bucky responds.  

Somehow, it feels like a promise.  

 

\--- 

 

"James, you are vibrating out of your skin today – it's distracting. How 'bout you take off early and just go and meet your boy already," Joan glares scathingly at Bucky over a tall stack of folders.  

"He's not my -" Bucky tries.  

"Yeah, so you've said, though he clearly _is_ , so would you mind removing your lovesick behind from our most comfortable desk chair and getting out of my damn hair," she finishes, turning her back to him dismissively.  

"Fine, fine I'm going – you'd think your goal as a boss would be to _keep_ employees _at work_."  

"Not when they are being sappy nuisances."  

So Bucky leaves the hospital an hour early, making his way to Steve's apartment for their movie night. He can't stop thinking about the day before - about being tucked close to Steve as they drove, about 'he looks at you too.' His skin is tingling pleasantly and he fidgets non-stop in his seat on the B.  

 _Maybe Joan was right._  

He arrives at Steve's, feeling oddly nervous, and knocks.  

Steve answers the door shirtless, clad only in a pair of grey sweatpants and -  

 _H_ _oly fuckin' shitballs._  

"You're early," Steve comments, looking at Bucky quizically from behind a pair of thick-lensed, black-framed glasses.  

"You're wearing glasses," Bucky hears himself say, rather stupidly.  

"Yeah, I use them to see," Steve smirks at him, obviously recalling their long ago conversation about Bucky's own eyewear.  

"But I – I've – I've never seen you wearing them before." 

"Yeah, I hate having the weight on my face – it's distracting. So I always wear my contacts, but I ran out yesterday. C'mon in." Steve opens the door further, gesturing Bucky inside. "Hold on a sec," he adds before disappearing into his bedroom.  

Bucky feels like he needs to physically shake himself, but opts for flopping heavily down on Steve's couch and throwing his arm over his face in defeat.  

Steve returns from the bedroom wearing a faded red t-shirt, a development which Bucky is unsure whether to regard as the best or the worst – _The very worst_ – case scenario in regards to how this evening will proceed.  

"Want some snacks?" Steve asks.  

Bucky's stomach growls in response, loud enough to – _Almost, no not really_ – knock the image of shirtless Steve out of his head. "Heck yes."  

They assemble some snacks on the coffee table and sit down on the couch across from one another. The odd tension from the day before resituates itself between them, comfortable this time, and they begin to talk about everything and anything.  

They talk and talk, it becoming clear after an hour or so that the movie plan has been abandoned.  

- 

"Okay, here's one: would you rather wear socks at all times, for the rest of your life, or never wear socks again?"   

Steve squints one eye and grimaces in an exaggerated pensive expression. They are sitting at opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, their legs filling up the space between.

Bucky is hyper-aware of Steve's left foot, which is resting lightly against his upper thigh; a thin line of touch that leaves Bucky feeling as if all of his nerve endings have relocated to those few inches where Steve rests against him.   

"Hmmm. Follow-up question permitted?" Steve drops the mock-grimace and picks up an expectant smile.   

"I will allow it."   

"Can I change the socks at all? When they get dirty, or hole-y, or when I want to switch to a festive pair?"  

"We will certainly be returning to the concept of 'festive socks,' but to answer the question - yes. But you would have to put the next pair on immediately. As in right away. And bare feet cannot touch the floor during the transfer."   

"Who is monitoring my sock exchanges in this scenario? This is sounding a little too militant for a hypothetical footwear situation."   

"I'm sorry but I'm afraid we agreed to only _one_ follow-up question per scenario, and you've already exhausted it."  

"When did we -"   

"Answer the question, Steven. This is serious and I will not permit further dilly-dallying."   

"We will certainly be returning to 'dilly-dallying,' but alright, alright. I'm gunna have to go with no socks ever again. I could _maybe_ live without all the great barefoot sensations - like wet grass in the summer, or hello, _sand_ – but I absolutely cannot resign myself to sleeping with socks on for the rest of my life. Can't do it - I hate it. I'd never sleep again. So yeah, I have to put my foot down on that - a sock-less foot."   

"But," Bucky begins, his expression thinning into something earnest and incredulous, "what about bowling? You gunna put your bare feet into rented shoes?"   

Steve just stares at him for a beat, mouth slightly open. Then he throws his head back, laughter booming out from his chest and filling up the dimly-lit room.   

"What?" Bucky asks, a smile creasing his face, deeper with every cackling exhale Steve makes.

He watches the shifting line of Steve's neck, feeling that small press of contact between them jump as Steve smacks his own thigh between guffaws. He starts to laugh as well, his softer chuckle mixing with Steve's, their happy, dissonant sounds seeming to hover brightly in the air between them, making Bucky's blood sing along, close to the surface of his skin.   

- 

"Buckeroo?"  

"No."  

"Buck Wild?"  

"Jesus, NO."  

"Bucking Bronco?"  

"No, Steve, what the hell."  

"Bucket?"  

"Only if you want to risk me calling you 'Stove'… or 'Sieve'."  

"Bucket and Sieve: crime-fighting duo. It's got a certain ring to it."  

"Sandbox vigilantes, panning for justice? Yeah, okay pal, if you say so."   

"Buck? The gentle oh so gentle?" 

"You are never going to let me live that down, are you?" 

"Probably not." 

- 

"It was bone cancer." Steve's voice is soft but unwavering. His eyes are sad but not shining. He's settled into his grief; he's broken it in.   

Regardless, the look of his face makes Bucky want to reach for him. He forces himself to forget his own sensitivity in favor of comforting his friend and puts his hand on Steve's knee for a quick, and hopefully reassuring, squeeze.   

Steve's eyes flick to meet his and he gives Bucky a tight, sad smile.   

He and Steve still aren't particularly tactile with one another, bar the adventure on the bike. On Bucky's end is the hyper-awareness of just how much he wants to be touching Steve at all times; the casual touch just wouldn't be casual for Bucky, not yet, probably not ever. 

 _On Steve's end... maybe he's just not a touchy type of friend?_    

Bucky's mind recycles countless images of Steve enthusiastically hugging Sam, of Steve leaning on Tony's shoulder, of Steve and Natasha's hands linked loosely between them as they dance and giggle in the dim lights of a basement bar.   

 _Maybe it's just me then..._   

Bucky drags himself from these thoughts to survey Steve. The grooves bracketing his mouth have deepened, but his eyes remain dry.   

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine how hard that must have been. Must _be_." Bucky tightens his fingers around Steve's knee once more, feeling the hard knot of tendon and bone, the yielding tension of muscle.   

Steve's hand descends briefly, covering Bucky's. His palm is warm and dry, solid and soft. Bucky feels suddenly desperate with the urge to simultaneously tense and melt.   

He brings his eyes up to meet Steve's again.   

"Thank you, Buck," Steve says, and his voice is as soft as his skin.   

Steve squeezes once and lets go. Bucky slides his palm away.  

"She was the one who gave me Bess, actually, right before I left for college – so we have her to thank for us meeting, if you think about it," Steve continues, his tone significantly lighter.  

"Hmmm, I figured something like that, given that the phone number on the back is for this place. I definitely need to thank her – without that iPod how would I know that you still have the *NSYNC Christmas album in your library?"  

"You've been waiting to bring that up all these months, haven't you?" 

"It's a distinct possibility." 

"Well jokes on you – I'm not embarrassed." 

Bucky just grins at him.  

"Okay I'm a little embarrassed. But 'Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays' is catchy, you can't deny it." 

"You're implying that I've actually listened to it," Bucky responds.   

Steve raises an eyebrow.  

"Okay, fine, it's pretty good."  

- 

"Okay, here." Steve's eyes are glinting with premature mirth and his mouth is twisted in a smirk. "Rhodey or Tony?"   

"Jesus, Rogers! No. No no no. Why would you do that," Bucky covers his eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of Steve dissolving in snorts and giggles. "Oh my god. Why would you put those images in my head! Ugh!"   

Bucky pulls his hands away to glare at Steve in desperation. Steve is unable to absorb the glare however, his eyes creased closed as his shoulders shake with silent laughter.   

Bucky continues to watch Steve as his hilarity gradually subsides, Bucky's stomach doing a series of acrobatic tricks with every little, amused sound Steve makes.   

 _Christ, just look at this kid._   

Finally Steve is quiet, a huge grin plastered across his face as he looks back at Bucky. "Next question?" he asks, his tone playful.   

"No, you've lost your question privileges. You abused my trust. I feel violated," Bucky deadpans at him.   

This sets Steve off again, his belly-laugh practically making the couch vibrate underneath them.   

Bucky throws a remote at him. It hits Steve on the shoulder with a dull clunk and slides off to clatter on the floor.   

- 

"Let me guess, linebacker?"  

"Swimmer, actually." 

"Oh yeah?" 

"For years. It was the first and only sport I ever got into. I was a real shrimp before I started swimming – super skinny, almost frail." 

"That is difficult to picture, not gunna lie."  

"I'd offer to find you a photo or two but I'm so _not_ getting up right now. But yeah – swimming. From sophomore year of high school all the way through college. The chlorine was a killer on my asthma at first but all the activity helped in the end. Having a growth spurt and developing some muscle didn't hurt either." 

Bucky chooses not to respond to the bulk of this, as anything he has to say will surely implicate him in a variety of potentially awkward ways, asking only, "You have asthma?" 

"Yeah – it's pretty in check but I still have an inhaler. Misplaced it the other day actually...I should find that," Steve murmurs, somewhat absently.  

"You lost – Steve that's so dangerous, you _dingus_ – How can you just – Steve, you let people smoke around you!"  

"Well it's not _their_ fault that I -" 

"You are such an idiot. Oh my god, you drive me nuts – how have you lived this long?"  

Silence for a few beats.  

"When did you last use the inhaler? Should we look for it now?" 

- 

"Why don't you wear a prosthetic?"   

"I ah, did actually. I used to."

Bucky settles himself in the couch, readying himself to explain.

"Well, it doesn't work for everyone. Physically, or mentally. For me... I decided it was holding me back - it was hurting my recovery. For a long time after the accident I was devastated, and pretty deep in denial, and that eventually gave way to a frenzy to get everything 'back to normal' as quickly as possible." Bucky swallows thickly, shifting in his seat. "The prosthetic was part of that. But the thing is, there is no going back - a prosthetic is not a reset button. And my obsessive need to believe that it was, that I could just pretend nothing had actually changed - that wasn't healthy and it wasn't helping. So I decided to go without. To force myself to face the changes and their permanence, with the intention that once I could comfortably accept what had happened I could try again."  

"And you haven't yet? Tried again?"   

"No. Not yet. I – not yet."   

In truth, Bucky is terrified of trying again. He remembers that scrambling feeling of want, and the overwhelming feeling of frustration. He compares that to the relative peace he's felt in the past few years; the thought of sliding back into that negative headspace is frightening. He doesn’t trust himself to keep a firm grip on the emotional stability he worked hard to build.   

 _Well, at least where the arm is concerned_ , he thinks, recalling the tidal wave of volatile feeling he's been swimming against since the incident with Brock, since he met Steve.   

He mentally shrugs off his romantic flounderings and considers again his hesitance regarding a prosthesis. Some small, hopefully part of his mind offers that his grip might stand a chance of getting _stronger_ , if he could use two hands.   

He looks up to find Steve staring at him, wearing a complicated and unreadable expression.   

"Someday," Bucky tells him.   

Steve's face loses a few layers, softening, but Bucky still can't read what's left there.   

He wishes so fervently that he could that he'd be willing to offer his other arm in trade.   

- 

"Well do you have a least favorite - " 

"The Red Hot Chili Peppers." 

"That was fast."  

"It's just that the _second_ I hear his voice I'm gripped by the very fervent need to remove my own ears."  

"You are very adamant about this, Buck."  

"Yeah, I'm not fucking around, Steve – it's a very visceral reaction."  

"Not even 'Californication'?"  

"Why does everyone always ask me that?" 

- 

"And you can't tell me _none_ of them stayed to fight, like seriously, it's just ridiculous to completely write off the whole group as -"  

"Steve – Stevie. I love _Harry Potter_ as much as you do, truly - but I'm pretty sure that if you keep going on like this about the 'lack of a Slytherin redemption arc' you are going to have an aneurysm, and that would put a pretty big damper on my night."  

"I just can't _believe_ she didn't - " 

"I know, man, I know." 

"We deserved better." 

"I'm not arguing with you – I'm just concerned about your blood pressure."  

Steve trails off, grumbling something under his breath that includes the words 'Draco Malfoy' - his cheeks bright red with frustration.  

 _This nerd is_ _gunna_ _kill me._  

- 

"Have you ever seen the movie _Paper Moon_?" 

"No." 

"Oh, oh man – buckle-down, Bucket, you are in for some cute."  

"Hit me with it, Sieve." 

A few seconds of silence.  

"So who is going to make the 'but don’t strain yourself' pun, me or you?" 

"Sounds like you just did, Stove. Obviously – you're the Pun Cooker, after all." 

"Did you just make an inadvertent _30 Rock_ joke? You watch that show way, way too much." 

"'Our basketball hoop was a rib cage! A rib cage!'"  

"Oh my god, shut up. I'm putting the movie in."  

- 

"Steve. _Steve_. This is the most adorable movie I have ever seen."  

"Right? Do you -" 

"Yes." 

"You didn't even hear -" 

"Yes." 

"Stop saying 'yes' before -"  

"Yes." 

"Bucky!" 

"… Yes?" 

"Do you want to watch it a second time after?" 

"Do all Clint Bartons love dogs?" 

"Is that a -" 

"Yes." 

- 

Bucky wakes up curled into himself awkwardly, up against one arm of the couch. He's got his right arm tucked under his chin, one knee pulled up to his chest, and the other leg extended out over the length of the couch.  

Steve is fast asleep at the other end, still in a sitting position with his feet on the floor, his head lolled back onto the cushion behind him.  

Steve's right hand is curled lightly around Bucky's right ankle, pillowed on the couch between them. The contact is both absent-minded and comfortably possessive, and Bucky's whole leg feels like it's on fire.  

Unmoving, he takes his time to look Steve over, letting his eyes travel slowly and indulgently over the dear face - still so beautiful, even slack in sleep. Bucky's heart skitters and jumps and he suddenly feels as if he's standing on a precipice, looking down into unknown depths.  

Another breathless second and with it the realization that he's been standing here for quite some time.  

 _Jump?_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky may have inherited his rather ah, delicate feelings toward The Red Hot Chili Peppers from yours truly. I just can't guys, I just CAN'T. 
> 
> The line "Our basketball hoop was a rib cage! A rib cage!" is a Tracey Jordan quote from 30 Rock, Season 4, Episode 21. Buck's obsession with that show is inspired by... I honestly don't have much of a clue. But I do know his favorite character is Kenneth. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	10. Track 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Bucky Bear Sr. were summarizing this chapter for you, I think it'd go a little something like this: 
> 
> Whoomp, there it is.  
> And there that is. And that too.  
> It's just – It's a veritable minefield of whoomps in this section so just, you know, gird your fuckin' loins. 
> 
>  
> 
> <3  
> Please see the end of chapter notes for possibly triggering content herein. (Nothing too bad I promise.)

Bucky doesn't make the leap that morning at Steve's or at any point during the next few days. He wants to, wants to tell Steve how he feels, but -  

_But but but but but -_

But the doubts are still clogging up his brain like a bottleneck on the 495.  

There's the doubt that Steve feels the same way. There's the doubt that he could handle a relationship even if Steve did return his regard. There's the doubt that he'd be good enough for Steve, regardless of anyone's feelings.  

There's the doubt that Steve is ready to start a new relationship, or if he ever will be.  

 _It's only been a few months since Peggy left..._  

There's the arm and a host of other baggage. There's the general intimacy issues Bucky's always struggled with, even before the accident had added another bus-load. There's his failure with Brock.  

Bucky thinks over the incident with Brock as he mindlessly pours coffee and bags black and white cookies on Thursday afternoon.  

He thinks about befriending Brock in college and falling for him instantly. Of Brock's never ending string of boyfriends and girlfriends that did not include Bucky in their number. Of Bucky's crazy jealousy, intense pining, and his failure to do anything about it for _six full years_ , stewing in his crush and letting it color every interaction he had with his friend.  

He thinks about that final night at the bar, the night Brock was single again and had finally turned his eyes in Bucky's direction. Of going back to Brock's apartment with him, falling straight into bed and offering ill-advised, emotional confessions in the dark.  

He thinks of Brock calling him 'baby' a dozen times but never his own name, of how after the dozenth time the sudden realization had come over Bucky that Brock didn't really know him at all, and worse he didn't really know Brock. Of how he'd built up the fantasy of Brock in his own head, completely over-writing Brock's true self. Of how the sudden recognition of what he'd done had terrified Bucky, forcing him to pull away from Brock and jump awkwardly off the bed.  

He thinks of having heard himself say 'I can't' and Brock's confused face. Of how quickly Brock's confusion had melted into anger, and the vitriol in his voice as he'd spat, "What was this, a fucking cocktease? You're lucky I even wasted my time on you this far!"  

He thinks of the force that had been behind Brock's words, of how badly it'd stung, of how it hadn't disguised the real hurt in Brock's eyes.  

He thinks of how he had felt, knowing _he'd_ put that hurt there, knowing that he'd wounded his friend with his own false ideals, and how that had stung so much worse.  

Bucky thinks of how he'd sworn then never to hurt someone like that again.  

He thinks of his hesitance to date at all in the past two years.  

He thinks of meeting Steve, of loving Steve, of the possibility of hurting Steve.  

He cannot let that happen, _he cannot_. He'd rather lose his other arm than see the pain in Steve's eyes that he'd seen in Brock's. For any reason.  

 _But this is totally different_ , he tries to convince himself, _you_ know _Steve_.  

 _Do you know Steve?_  

 _What if – how can you be sure?_  

 _How can anyone be sure?_  

 _What if, what if, what if?_  

The hopes and the doubts batter against the inside of his skull, working him into a headache and causing him to eat almost an entire tray of Hamantaschen.  

 _Ugh, that really didn't help._  

He thinks about the fact that he's known Steve less than a year and already he's wrapped himself around Bucky's insides, like the lyrics of a song played one too many times. It's terrifying.  

Then he thinks of waking up next to Steve on the couch, of how comfortable and wonderful and not at all nerve-wracking it had been. Of Steve's stupid glasses and charming giggles and big, dumb, pretty face.  

He feels a bit better.  

 

\--- 

 

Friday night arrives and with it Dum Dum Dugan's karaoke birthday party.  

Bucky leaves the hospital that evening and heads straight for the club. He hasn't seen Steve since Wednesday morning and he is so nervous and excited that his bones feel like they're buzzing in anticipation.  

The party is already in full swing when he arrives; the room is packed with people and louder than a metro-station at rush hour. Most of the crowd are facing the stage, catcalling and cheering-on an enthusiastic Clint, who is in the midst of belting out Mariah Carey's 'Always Be My Baby,' clearly focusing his serenade on a put-upon looking Natasha.  

Bucky squeezes closer to the bar, meeting Nat's eyes as she looks his way. Bucky grins at her before putting the back of hand to his forehead in a swooning gesture and then pointing at Clint. Nat rolls her eyes at him, turning back to the stage and obviously trying not to cringe as Clint tries, and fails, an impressively high note.  

At this moment Clint notices Bucky's arrival himself, breaking the song to shout "Buck!" loudly and waving in Bucky's direction. He finishes the song staring at Bucky instead, changing the lyrics to 'you will always be my Bucky.'  

Nat's eyebrows tell Bucky that she finds this development highly preferential. Bucky's middle finger tells her that he doesn’t.  

After Clint finishes, Nat mounts the stage and launches into a playful rendition of Melanie's 'Brand New Key' that makes most of the assembly go a little slack-jawed and shifty.  

"Well that song is suggestive," Sam mutters to Bucky, joining him at the bar, "What's up dude."  

"Hey Sam," Bucky responds warmly. "Hey, is -" 

"Yeah, Steve's here. I think he might be hiding in that back corner, though – he's a coward when it comes to karaoke, got the worst singing voice I've ever heard." 

Bucky laughs. "He really does, doesn't he?" 

Finally collecting his drink, Bucky follows Sam to a table in the back. Steve's there and as soon as his eyes find Bucky's they both break into huge grins.  

 _Oh dear._  

The three of them listen to a few more performances before Sam downs the rest of his tequila and stands up suddenly, exclaiming, "Alright plebs, the prince is about to take the stage."  

Bucky and Steve trade wide-eyed looks as Sam moves off. Their eyes widen further as Sam starts to belt out the first few lines of Prince's 'Kiss' in perfect pitch.

Sam brings the house down and at that point it seems unanimously decided that the karaoke portion of the evening is over; the tables and chairs are shifted to the perimeter of the room to clear space for a dance floor and everyone starts to move.  

Clint, of all people, has been given DJ duty and is interspersing The Weekend and 90's hip hop into what sounds like the entirety of the _Dirty Dancing_ soundtrack.  

Bucky loves to dance, always has. He spends most of the evening partnering with Nat, the two of them swinging around with as much coordination as possible given Bucky's uneven balance, and having a fantastic time.  

Steve is a horrible dancer - a fact which Bucky has noted and enjoyed several times previous to this evening. He's typically enthusiastic about it anyway, but tonight he seems a bit subdued, mostly hanging by the bar and watching the others.  

Bucky remains constantly aware of Steve's location in the room, as though some internal compass is endlessly swiveling in Steve's direction. He meets Steve's eyes again and again over Nat's head, always smiling, and the tension between them pulls and pulls.  

It's nearing midnight when Clint starts to transition into slow numbers. Bucky is dancing with Nat to 'Tell It Like It Is,' his cheek resting on the top of her head, both of her arms tight around his waist.  

Swaying gently with the music, Bucky asks her, "Do you ever think what would have happened if we had fallen in love?"  

"I was under the impression that we had," she murmurs near his neck.  

Kisses her forehead lightly. "You're right. But you know what I mean – romantic love."   

"Pota-to, po-ta-to. Love is love, James. It's a lot easier to feel things if you don’t have to shove them in a specific box first."  

"Oh common Natalia, what about you and Clint? You love me like you love him?"  

She pauses for a second, pulling back to look Bucky in the eye. "I don’t just _love_ Clint - Clint's my second skin."  

Surprised at such a fervent declaration, Bucky just looks at her.   

"Don’t get me wrong though, Barnes. It's not magic - it's not that 'born to love you' sort of thing – it's a _choice_. Clint and I are both making the choice to trust each other, to live as a team."  

Bucky processes this for a minute, his eyes drifting away from Nat's face. Once again he spots Steve's face in the dim light.  

Bucky must flinch because the next second Nat is asking, "So what are you going to do about Steve?" 

He looks back down at her, frowning. "He's only been broken up with Peggy for a few month's Nat, it's not time to – plus I -"  

"From what Sam says the breakup was coming for a while and it was one-hundred percent amicable," Nat cuts him off. "Plus, _Steve_ is the one to know whether he's ready to move on or not – why don't you just ask him?"  

"And say what, exactly?"  

"Just tell him you're interested and see where he's at."  

"I don't want to risk putting that kind of pressure on him and -" 

"James, he _knows_ you – he would know you wouldn't be 'pressuring' him," Nat states confidently. "I think if you are honest with yourself you know that, and you also know that the person you don't want to put pressure on is yourself."  

Bucky can't hold her gaze any longer.  

"But I know you too,James, and I know you are strong enough to handle whatever comes up. Make the jump – what's the worst that could happen?" 

"I could land at the bottom of a ravine." 

Nat pulls his chin up so he can see her unamused look. "You don't think Steve would catch you?" she asks.  

"I wouldn't blame him if he didn't..." 

"And what in the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"I mean shit happens, Nat, and I just – Just because you have feelings for someone doesn't mean jack shit for it working out." He pauses for a minute, flustered. "Plus, Steve probably doesn't even think of me like that." 

Nat gives one of her patented, 10-on-the-Richter-scale eye rolls. "I thought you were missing an arm, not eyes, Barnes. And as I just said, you won't know until you _ask him_. And you won't know that it won't work out until you try – it's a conscious choice, remember? Love requires action."  

Her face softens as she looks at him then, and he pulls her in tight once more. The song shifts into 'This Must Be The Place' by the Talking Heads. Though the tempo is up from the last number, Bucky and Nat keep swaying slowly, listening to the lyrics.  

"… Out of all those kinds of people / You got a face with a view..." 

Bucky looks up again and finds Steve staring straight back from his spot at the bar. Seconds pass and their shared gaze holds, causing Bucky's chest to constrict painfully.  

"… I'm just an animal looking for a home and / Share the same space for a minute or two / And you love me 'till my heart stops / Love me 'till I'm dead..."  

Bucky looks down, gulping.  

A few songs later and the party starts to break up. Bucky stands near the door with Steve, saying their goodbyes to the others and trading significant but confusing looks with one another.  

They drift down the sidewalk a bit, side by side, waving as clusters of friends move past them. It's somehow acknowledged, without words, that they are both headed back to Steve's.   

The air is fizzing between them and it's making Bucky feel like bursting out in absurd laughter.   

A block from the building Steve shoots him a smile. "Wanna watch something?"  

"Yeah – and I know _exactly_  what."  

"If you say _30 Rock_  I'm gunna -"   

"Doesn't matter  _what_ you're 'gunna' if I beat you there!"   

Bucky takes off running, the sound of Steve's heavy footfalls coming quickly up the pavement behind him.   

Reaching Steve's apartment building they race up the stairs, jostling each other, their shoulders bumping. Steve's laughing, exultant. As they take the landing on Steve's floor Bucky gets in a good shove at Steve's left shoulder and manages a two-step lead as Steve's lumbering frame ricochets off the beige wall.   

Momentarily distracted by the sight of Steve's flushed face and off-balance because of the missing arm, Bucky trips over the welcome mat outside Steve's door and falls headlong on to the wood boards of the floor with an almighty thump.  

Steve, screeching in triumph, fumbles his keys into the lock as Bucky rolls himself over, groaning and sore.   

Steve disappears into the apartment, still shouting in glee.  

 _So gracious in victory, that one_.   

Bucky remains on the floor, panting. There's a pair of muddy boots under the back of his head, but he can't be bothered to move.   

Finally realizing that he is no longer pursued, Steve pokes his head back out beyond the door frame, his smile so wide it’s a wonder it still fits on his face.  

"Bucky?"   

Bucky feins death, closing his eyes and letting his tongue loll out of his mouth.   

Steve falls to his knees beside Bucky's hips, wailing theatrically, "Bucky! No! Not you!" He looms over Bucky's prone form, fake sobbing and clutching a hand in Bucky's shirt where it stretches over his pectorals. The drama of Steve's performance is slightly undermined by the fact of him breaking into snorts and cackles every few seconds. He's practically hiccuping with mirth.   

Bucky cracks one eye to peek at Steve's face. His eyes are almost screwed shut with laughter, his cheeks rosy and his teeth gleaming in the dull light from the street lamps beyond the hallway window.  

Bucky is finding it hard to keep his corpse-like composure, partially due to the friction of Steve's palm against his chest –  _Jesus_ _, his thumb just touched my_ _–_ but mostly because seeing Steve like this makes it almost impossible for Bucky to do anything but reflect giddiness back at him.   

 _God, he's so happy - so goddamn goofy._  

 _Did I do that?_ _God_ _damn_ _, I hope so._  

 _He should feel this good_ _all the time._  

 _If I could do one thing, it'd be to make him_ _this happy, everyday. All the time._  

Oblivious to Bucky's slightly more serious train of thought, Steve is in the full swing of his faux-lamentations. "Dear God, why? Why Bucky? Cruel world! I can't go on without him!"   

Bucky finally breaks, giggling hard through his blooming smile. "Steve -"   

"Even when I had nothing I had -"   

"Steve, shut the hell up. You'll wake the whole damn building." Bucky grins up at him. 

Steve subsides into breathless little giggles. He doesn't move his hand from Bucky's chest.  

The whooshing sound of the passing cars outside and the distant thump of a stereo's bass form a background to their mingled breathing.   

 _Christ, just look at him._   

A few seconds pass as they stare at each other, both grinning like apes, their heaving chests beginning to match in rhythm. A few more breaths and suddenly the moment seems to crystallize, the air between them thinning.   

Bucky doesn't know who moves first, but before he can blink Steve's mouth is on his. Overwhelming warmth and the burnt taste of whisky. Every nerve in Bucky's body seizes, his mind filling with chatter.   

 _Wait, wait – we can't – we shouldn't –_   

Then Steve's tongue slides against his and Bucky's brain seems to shut down with an audible 'click.' All he can do is feel and all he can feel is the weight of Steve's chest over his, the warmth of Steve's wet mouth, the tight clutch of Steve's -   

 _Oh fuck, I_ want _to._

Bucky hears himself moan against Steve's lips, his right hand coming up to clutch at the back of Steve's neck. The soft-scratching feel of the short hairs at Steve's nape makes Bucky's palm tingle and he grasps Steve harder.   

Steve shifts himself horizontal, sliding his thigh between Bucky's and bringing his stomach into contact with Bucky's side. Bucky groans again, his hips bucking and his lower back grinding painfully against the hard edge of the welcome mat beneath him.   

Above him, Steve is gasping, one hand still fisted in Bucky's shirt as if trying to hold Bucky against him. He reaches his other hand behind Bucky's head, pushing the dirty boots out from under him before weaving his fingers into Bucky's hair.   

 _Oh God oh God oh God -_  

"Fuck, Bucky," Steve all but slurs against Bucky's mouth.  

The combination of those words on Steve's lips and the accompanying huff of warm breath against his own slick ones makes Bucky's brain short circuit, discarding even the short supply of exclamations that had remained.   

Steve's hand tightens in Bucky's hair, tugging gently, and then -   

"Steve?"   

It's Sam's voice, lifted in curiosity, coming from the interior of the apartment.   

At the sound, Steve and Bucky spring apart as if tazed.   

The vacuum that had been created in Bucky's brain as a result of Steve's close proximity immediately fills with a surge of vigorous panic. He manages to prop himself up on his elbow, unable to look at Steve, just before Sam's head appears through the door.    

Sam pauses for a moment to take in the sight of them, crouched and disheveled on the floor. Then his eyebrows rise all the way to his hairline and a smug smile fastens itself across his mouth. "Well, well what do we -"   

"Sam." The sound of Steve's voice, clear and lucid with a touch of warning in it, makes Bucky flinch.  

He risks a peek at Steve's face, which is lit up with the most exaggerated blush Bucky has ever seen. But there's a small and not exactly sheepish smile playing over Steve lips –  _Steve's wet lips, h_ _oly mother_ _of_ _–_ as he glares at Sam.  

"Damn, Rogers - it's about time," Sam drawls, sporting a full-blown smirk now.   

"Sam -" Steve's cheeks are beyond flaming, and he looks at Sam with a hardened expression.   

"You know what they say, 'use it or lose it' – I was getting concerned -"   

Steve reaches behind Bucky to grab one of the toppled boots and then flings it deftly at Sam's head. Sam, his reflexes as quick as Steve's, ducks back through the door just in time, the boot crashing harmlessly against the door frame, dry flecks of mud scattering everywhere.   

Sam's voice returns to them from far inside the apartment, "You two keep it down, now. Some of us like to sleep off our hangovers in an actual  _bed_ , with you know, actual  _sleep_."   

Bucky can't bring himself to meet Steve's eyes as he struggles to stand.   

 _Shit, shit what do I – what was_ _I -_   

Steve remains on the floor, elbows propped on his bended knees.  

Finally hazarding a glance at Steve's face, Bucky's eyes meet his. The blush is fading from Steve's cheeks but his eyes, gone a dark navy in this light, are still glowing with some strong emotion.   

 _God, what is_ _he_ _thinking?_   

Steve smiles at Bucky and brings a hand up to scrub slowly at the back of his own neck. Bucky now knows what it feels like to do that and, seeing it, resists the sudden urge to rub his own palm against his thigh to quell the memory.   

"Ah..." Steve is still smiling bemusedly up at Bucky, but the silence between them stretches and deepens in a way that's not altogether comfortable.   

Though unable to stop an answering smile from taking over his own face, Bucky's internal chaos picks up its frenzy and he takes two backwards steps toward the stairs, bent on escape. "I have to, ah, I should – I'm going to go." He clears his throat helplessly. "Should probably make sure Thing 1 and Thing 2 got home okay – for all we know they're terrorizing the city and corrupting youths with their..." he trails off weakly, finding it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact with Steve's pink, kind, beautiful face.   

"Oh. Okay." Steve's happy expression falters slightly. His eyebrows furrow just a bit as he searches Bucky's face, but whatever he finds there makes his grin stretch wide again. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"   

"Ah, yeah, absolutely. Tomorrow." Bucky feels himself smile once more at Steve as his feet find the top stair. He turns his back on Steve, simultaneously a relief and a wrench, and clatters down the stairs at a clip. He bursts through the door to the street, his mind and body buzzing like a hive of bees.   

Unable to get a grip on a single train of thought amongst the clutter of his brain, he settles for replaying the hallway scene over and over to himself as his feet pound the pavement. Hazy images of Steve's face, the feeling of his palm tightening in Bucky's hair, the taste of his –  

 _Fuck._   

The full implications of what had just taken place begin to lay themselves over Bucky's mind, doing nothing to stanch his incipient panic. So many conflicting emotions are sloshing around inside his chest that he feels physically off-balance - his steps lurching over breaks in the sidewalk.  

One second he is consumed by such a bubbling joy that he wants to shout and throw his fist in the air like some greasy-haired teenager from an 80's movie, and the next he is so overcome with dismay that he wants to fling himself down on one of the stoops he's passing and put his head between his knees.   

 _What the fuck did you just do?_   

 _Stuck your goddamn tongue down your friend's throat, that's what._ _No, wait, that was your friend's tongue, down your throat._

 _Jesus._   

 _Could Steve – could we?_   

Bucky suddenly remembers the taste of whiskey on Steve's lips, burnt and deep.   

 _Shit, was Steve drunk? Was_ _that the only reason he -_ _Christ, did I just take advantage?_   

But Steve hadn't been acting drunk before the kiss. Bucky gets a flash image of Steve's face, giddy in the hallway's dim light.   

 _Not on liquor, anyway._   

 _After all_ _, he only nursed that one drink the whole night, all the ice cubes had melted before he –_  

Bucky cringes at this awareness. 

 _What the fuck, did you stare at him all night?_  

 _Of course you did, you're_ _always fucking staring at him. You must be the most conspicuous motherfucker that –_  

The sound of Sam's flippant teasing rings suddenly in Bucky's inner ear: "use it or lose it _._ "  

 _It's only been a few months since Peggy – is that long enough?_  

 _As far as you know you're the first person Steve's touched since -_  

A cold wash of pain cuts through Bucky's tumultuous thoughts.   

 _Oh God, you're the_ _rebound. You were right there, that's all._   

 _Makes sense. It's not like Steve ever – not like Steve could –_ _he was just looking for -_   

 _Even if, hell, even if your feelings weren't completely one-sided, it's not like anything would come of it. You would just fuck it up, just like you did with Brock._   

 _Oh God. You can't fuck this one up._   

 _You CAN'T._  

 _Steve's too – You can't lose – Fuck._   

 _It’s okay, it's for the best_ _. You'll just tell him you can't – n_ _ot again -_ _that you don't want to –_   

Tears are stinging in Bucky's eyes now, blurring his vision of the dark sidewalk. He barely notices a figure duck out of an alleyway to his right.   

"Hey, you!" An unfamiliar voice hits his ears.   

"Fuck off," Bucky bites out, though without much heat, unable to focus his attention away from the strange cocktail of misery and relief that is flooding through him.   

"I'm talking to you, motherfucker," the voice snarls, closer.   

Bucky turns toward the voice, indignant, but is stopped by a fist hitting him squarely behind his right ear. He goes down, thrown off balance by the punch, hitting the pavement face-down. Pain blossoms across his temple, the feel of it almost a relief in itself, as it makes it impossible to focus on anything else.   

He feels hands fumbling over him, searching his pockets. He wonders dimly if he should feel afraid. He doesn't try to defend himself, just lays there with his forehead pressed to the grit of the pavement. 

 The man pulls the small wad of cash out of Bucky's back pocket. Bucky knows that at this point it's mostly ones; he hadn't brought much and had spent the majority on drinks for himself and Nat. He'd left his wallet on his dresser, folding his cash around his state ID instead. The memory of doing so seems to float behind his eyelids, causing him to realize belatedly that his eyes are closed. He opens them but the small movement makes his temple pound harder, and so he shuts them again.   

"This all you got, fucker?" the unfamiliar voice speaks above him, "Fuck, wasn't even worth the fucking trouble. Useless fuckin' cripple."   

Something small and light slaps Bucky in the back of the head, and he hears the heavy clop of the stranger's footsteps as the man jogs away.   

Bucky continues to lie there for a few heartbeats – five exactly, counting by the deep throb in his head. Then he uses his right arm as a lever, rolling himself over and up into a half-sitting position.   

The thing that had hit him in the head was his ID; his own small face looks up at him, impassive and unperturbed, from the pavement beside his hip. Bucky scoops up the little plastic rectangle and shoves it back into his pocket before struggling gracelessly to his feet.   

He pats his front pockets absently, feeling for his phone. It isn't there.   

 _O_ _h, you put it in_ _Nat's jacket._  

 _Well, good thing, as_ _the_ _asshat_ _definitely would've taken that._   

His palm is scraped raw from when he threw it out to brace his fall and he can feel a slow trickle of blood from a cut at his hairline. He sucks lightly on the scraped gouge in the pad of his thumb, his warm saliva a temporary balm. The faint, metallic tang of his flesh makes Steve's whiskey-laced kiss seem very far away.  

Bucky screws up his face and blots at his bleeding temple with the hem of his shirt. He presses down on the cut a little, the pain sharpening, distracting him from the mental-image of Steve's mouth.   

He resumes his walk to the apartment, his step faltering only once or twice after the first block. He continues to suck on his thumb for a bit, and reaches up to poke at his forehead cut every time a vision of Steve comes swimming into the forefront of his thoughts. By the time he's mounting the steps to his building he's done it enough to have lost count.   

 He walks quietly to his bedroom and closes the door behind him. He crawls into bed, fully dressed, and kicks his shoes off.  

He can't keep the thought of the kiss at bay.  

 _It's not like Steve even tried to get you to stay, after, he didn't even ask you to_.  

Bucky can't tell whether this notion is supposed to make him feel better or worse. 

 _Fuck,_ _he might've regretted it the second the moment was over._  

 _It didn't last long anyhow -_ _just one kiss. Christ, one kiss and you reacted like that?_   

Bucky feels his cheeks fill with heat; he'd made such a fool of himself.  

 _You can't even blame Steve, really, with you mooning_ _around him like a lovesick puppy all the time._   

 _Even if Steve wanted to – He just got out of a relationship. He can't be looking for anything serious._  

 _And even if he was interested in you, and if by some miracle you could get over yourself enough to make a go of it with him,_  t _here's no way he'd be ready to – that he could feel –_  

 _There's no way he'd be as deep in it as you'd be._  

 _And that'd be worse than keeping things the way they are now._  

 _But what if, what if, what if?_  

He falls into a fitful sleep, not surprised in the least when he wakes up in the early hours, bathed in cold sweat, having dreamed of the accident.  

He sits hunched on the edge of the bed, his pillow hugged against his chest. The dried blood along his hairline is flaking off, a smear of it on the fabric he's clutching.  

He holds the pillow tighter, suddenly recalling the sensation of Steve's hand pulling him in by the shirtfront, Steve's hand in his hair, Steve's mouth on his.  

_Fuck, Barnes. What the hell did you DO?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright here it is:  
> There is some KISSING in this chapter, and as you will read, there was some alcohol consumption prior to said kissing, so it may skate the line of DRUNKEN KISSING (sidebar: my phone auto-corrected that to 'drunk enlisting' at first, and if that also ain't the stucky-est thing...). However, neither party is truly drunk, just tipsy, and both are fully consenting to the kiss. Bucky even frets for a bit about the possibility of 'taking advantage' but rest assured, he totally didn't and he does realize that himself when he isn't in a fit of 'whatttttttttt' panic.  
> So yeah: alcohol consumption followed by kissing. But not really 'drunk' kissing, unless you count them being drunk on I REALLY LOVE YOU AND WANT TO TOUCH MOUTHS sorts of feelings.  
> There is also a scene at the end of the chapter that features Bucky getting mugged and suffering a small injury as a result (bump to the head and some light bleeding). Anyway, I'm REALLY SORRY and I already feel REALLY BAD about it but yeah, it's in there, so be warned. 
> 
>  
> 
> WHOA shit got a lil' heavy in there, huh? Suffer-Bucky galore. Just picture bird-prince Sam Wilson totally killing it on the line "You just leave it all up to me / My love will be your food" and it will be better, I swear.


	11. Track 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the angst-train, Conductor Bucket is pulling out of the station!  
> (Too soon to make a train-related Bucky joke? It is, isn't it. But just imagine his grumpy-cat face in place of the smoke box cap a la Thomas the Tank Engine – makes it a little better, yah? No? Okay, my bad.) 
> 
> Toot toot. 
> 
> *FINAL CHAPTER ALERT*  
> Can Bucky turn his caboose around??

After tossing and turning for a few more hours, Bucky gets up, changes into fresh clothes and gingerly washes out the cut on his forehead.  

 _You look like shit._  

He tiptoes past Nat and Clint's still-closed door in the early morning light, not wanting to face Nat and the questions she'll have about Steve, about his bruised face, about anything and everything.  

All he can think about is talking to Steve, clearing the air and getting things back to the way they were before yesterday.  

Bucky is positive that he's going to be met with either outright rejection from Steve, or an offer to start some sort of casual hookup situation. He's not sure which will hurt him more, but he knows he himself needs to get ahead of either one - to assure Steve that he isn't looking for anything casual, anything at all, and to try instead to keep the friendship intact. 

The journey back to Steve's apartment is simultaneously too short and too long, and Bucky feels a huge bubble of anxiety fill his chest as he knocks.  

Steve opens the door.   

"Hey, Buck," Steve greets him, looking a bit surprised. "You alright? I texted you but didn't -" 

"Oh, shit sorry, yeah Nat still has my phone," Bucky murmurs, trying not to stare too hard at Steve's fatigue-creased face.  

 _Looks like he hasn't slept well either._  

_Probably stayed up brainstorming how to let you down easy._

Bucky steps into the apartment at Steve's gesture and throws his backpack down on Steve's couch.

The improved lighting of the living room must illuminate the cut on Bucky's temple, because suddenly Steve flinches, saying, "Jesus, what happened?" His hands move instantly toward Bucky's face and flick around frantically, as if he wants to pat Bucky down to check for further injuries.  

But the prospect of casual touch is doing nothing to help Bucky's mental state – _You are supposed to be distancing yourself, remember?_ \- and he steps back out of Steve's reach, not failing to catch the confused look that passes over Steve's features as a result. "Nothing. Ah, I mean, I got a little mugged last night on my way home but – it's no big deal, just a scratch." 

"A _little_ mugged? Christ, Bucky, did you go to the police? What did they look like – where'd it happen – what did they do?" Steve's face is a mixture of anger and anxiety, the vulnerability in it making Bucky irrationally defensive.  

"No, Steve, I said it's nothing – he didn't even get anything off me either, just a few dollars and like, a MetroCard. It's not a big deal," he mutters.  

"Like hell it isn't – Bucky you should've – I should've – I should've walked you home."  

Steve looks so upset now that Bucky cannot help the hysterical anger from bubbling up into his throat. "Damnit Steve, I'm not some helpless damsel," he spits, not being able to help hunching his left shoulder.  

"I never said you were." The confusion is back on Steve's face. "I just meant – I was actually wishing I had walked you home before I knew about this. I, last night - I think we should talk about - "  

Bucky hurries to cut Steve off, not wanting to hear either the brush-off or some lukewarm, casual offer. "Yeah look Steve I - I understand if you don't - I don't - I don't think it should happen again, okay?" He looks down at the floor, unable to take in whatever expression Steve is wearing.  

"Oh?" Steve's voice is controlled, carefully even and soft, but with a catch in it.  

Bucky cringes, shutting his eyes as he continues, "Yeah I - I understand if you're looking for a 'friends with benefits' sort of thing, but that person can't be me – I, I don't think I can handle casual, not with you, and..." He trails off.  

"Friends with benefits?" Steve's voice is incredulous now. "That's what you think that was?"  

"Well yeah, I mean you - it's not like you can -" Bucky stutters.  

"You really think I'd do that?" Steve's tone is taking on heat, with a shard of pain in it that scrapes hard at Bucky's skin. "It'd be one thing if I were just looking for some meaningless hookup – not really my style, though I have no judgment for people who go for that sort of thing. But you really think I'd ask that of _you_? You really think I'd use someone I care about like that? Someone I know cares about _me_?"   

Bucky feels his cheeks redden and some strange defense in him wants to deny it, wants to assure Steve that Bucky _doesn’t_ care for him, that Bucky doesn’t care at all; as if his feelings for Steve are a weakness, something for Steve to exploit.   

He scrambles to explain. "You just got out of a long and serious relationship, Steve. There's no way you can be – there's no way you're ready to - I don't want to be your rebound," Bucky babbles, looking back up, his voice increasing in volume to match Steve's.  

"Jesus, Bucky! Didn’t I just say that I would never use you like that? And weren't you the one who told me that you can't put a timeline to things? Sure, it's been a few months and I'm not over Peggy yet. I'm never going to be over Peggy! But my feelings for her have absolutely nothing to do with my feelings for you!" Steve's truly angry now, shouting and moving his hands around wildly, his cheeks mottled with a dark red blush. "And you don't get to decide how I feel! I'm crazy about you, Buck." And suddenly Steve deflates like a punctured balloon, the fury rushing out of him all at once.   

Bucky stands still, watching him. Inside he's drowning, his emotions swelling and sloshing through him in one large, unforgiving wave. Steve's words are exactly what Bucky wants to hear, and exactly the last thing he wants Steve to say.  

 _Why is this happening_ _?_ _Why_ _can't_ _you_ _handle this?_  

 _This is just_ _how it went with Brock –_ _you're_ _going to fuck this up too_.   

"Bucky.  _James_ ," Steve's voice is painfully sincere, his eyes searching frantically over Bucky's blank face. "James, I think I'm in lo-"   

"Don't!" Bucky shouts, suddenly hysterical, "Don't say it, please don’t say it." He squeezes his eyes shut again.   

Bucky can't hear it, can't hear Steve say those words. He can't.  

He doesn't really know why, all he knows is that the panic has taken complete control and he can't be here a second longer.  

Because he was wrong, this isn't exactly like last time.   

This is so much worse.   

Because this is _Steve_. And Steve has infiltrated him, has climbed inside him and left footprints all over his guts. Losing Steve would be -  

 _It'd be worse than the arm. It'd be so much worse._   

Steve goes instantly silent, his mouth still open on the unfinished word. The expression on his face does something incredibly painful to Bucky's chest; Steve looks like he's been shot, his eyes wide, his cheeks drained of color. Bucky thinks that if he keeps looking at it, he'll die.   

Bucky spins away from Steve, pauses for a moment with his back turned, taking huge, shuddering breaths. Then he starts to move, quickly reaching out for his bag, throwing the strap over his shoulder and making a beeline for the door.   

He fumbles with the handle and in the extra second it takes for the door to swing open, he looks back at Steve.  

This is a mistake.   

Steve is standing rigidly, arms raised infinitesimally in Bucky's direction, his hands clenching on air.   

The wave inside Bucky's chest crests, robbing him of all control. The undertow sweeps him up and he's flailing, suspended in chaos.  

He closes the door behind him and leaves.  

When he stumbles back into his apartment building twenty minutes later, he runs straight into Nat in the hallway just outside their door. She takes one look at his busted face and forces him to cough up the story of the mugging. She is immediately outraged, just like Steve had been.  

Bucky understands that their anger is on his behalf, not directed _at him_ , but in his current hyper-emotional state he can't distinguish between the two and flies into a rage instead, yelling sharply at Nat before ultimately crumbling, ending up sobbing in her lap on the floor of the hallway.  

Her small, deft fingers comb through his hair while he hiccups wetly, unable to stop imagining the look on Steve's face when he'd last turned back, and unable to say anything except, "I fucked up Nat, I fucked up." 

Finally he stills.  

"James - Bucky." And the sound of his nickname on Nat's lips, so rare an occurrence, pushes him to sobs again. "You're such an amazing person, James. Why won't you let somebody love you? Why don't you think that you deserve that?" 

It's such a Nat question, so cutthroat and full of exasperated tenderness, that it almost makes Bucky laugh. "I don't know, I don’t _know_." 

He doesn't ask how she seems to know what happened with Steve; maybe it's her sixth sense, maybe Sam texted her, maybe he's just a plain predictable disaster.  

"What are you going to do?" she asks softly.  

He sniffs. "I don't know that either."  

"And Steve?"  

"I fucked it up Nat – I don't know what – I don't know what he's thinking. I just left him standing there. I think I messed everything up." 

"Alright, James, I know you are delicate right now, but you are also still an idiot - just so you know. Whatever you did it isn't irrevocable, I _know_ that." She pats his shoulder in a definitive way and makes to stand up. "Get inside and take a shower. I have to get groceries because Clint ate every crumb of food in the house when we got home last night - when I get back I'll make you dinner and we'll talk some more."  

Bucky slides out of her lap and props himself up against the wall, sitting with his knees bent.  

Nat leaves and Bucky continues to sit against the wall, staring blankly ahead and trying not to think about the last time he was on the floor of a hallway. He fails miserably.  

 _Shit,_ _I fuc_ _k_ _ed up._  

 

\--- 

 

Bucky knows that he fucked up but he isn't sure how to proceed from here.  

He isn't sure what to do about any of it, least of all how to feel. 

He wants to believe that Steve does love him, but somehow he can't. He wants to forgive himself for reacting as he had, insinuating what he had and the way it had made Steve's face scrunch up in pain and anger, but he can't. He wants to forgive himself for leaving, for not being able to handle a simple, albeit intense, conversation about feelings, but he can't.  

He wants to hope that Steve will forgive him for all these things too, but he can't do that either.  

 _I wouldn't forgive me._  

 _Fuck, c_ _an we go back to the way things were?_   

Bucky doesn't think they can; too much has been said, his reaction was too extreme.  

 _Can we go forward?_  

As much as he wants to, even considering the possibility sends him into a cold sweat of fear and doubt.  

And the problem with fear is that it tends to spread, soaking into everything and making it hard to remember where its source was, making it nearly impossible to staunch its flow.  

Bucky lets the anxiety take over; he pulls back into himself, going about his routine but barely speaking to anyone, barely even looking at his phone.

He doesn't hear from Steve for seven days.  

 

\--- 

 

Today 3:46 PM  

Steve: **Bucky?**  

 

Bucky stares at the text for almost twenty minutes, repeatedly having to tap the screen awake, feeling pathetic and arguing with himself.  

 _Well he sure waited a long time_ _..._  

 _He was just waiting to see if you'd go to him - you're the one who stormed out remember? He was just giving you the space you obviously, desperately wanted_ _._  

 _Even thoug_ _h space is the exact_ opposite _of what you want, you coward._  

 _What is Steve thinking? Why text now? Does he_ _-_ _w_ _hat is he thinking?_  

 _You could just_ _ASK, you COMPLETE FOOL._  

 _But..._  

 _But what if..._  

He picks up the phone, wanting to respond even when he doesn't know what to say - when he wants to say everything. But his hand shakes and his stomach twists and he puts the phone back down on his desk with a clatter.  

He doesn't respond.  

Steve doesn't text again.  

 

\---  

 

As the days pass Bucky continues to be held in stasis by the fear, frozen in place and unable to process what is going on around him.  

All the while he misses Steve with an ache so acute it feels like the phantom pain he sometimes gets in his missing arm: deep, searing, distracting.  

Thursday morning while dressing for work he chooses the pin Steve got him for Christmas (a little silver bandit mask in homage to Bucky Bear), trying not to feel sappy but needing to have a part of Steve with him. 

The missing is a kind of weight in itself, holding him down.  

He stays stuck. 

 

\--- 

 

A few days later Bucky is standing in the cereal aisle of his local grocer's, moping about Steve and feeling personally mocked by everything he sees.  

 _'Captain' fuckin' Crunch._  

Suddenly a voice breaks into the cloud of gloom around him: "James Buchanan Barnes, what the fuck are you doing?"  

Bucky turns to find Sam standing behind him, a basket over one arm and an unimpressed look on his face.  

"I'm buying cereal, what does it look like?" Bucky grunts, feeling oddly defensive and instantly anxiety ridden.  

 _Oh God, ask him about Steve, you gotta find out about Steve_ _-_  

"You know I'm not talking about Raisin Bran, you little shit. Steve - what the hell are you doing with _Steve_?" Sam's tone is hard, flat.  

Bucky feels himself flush. "Steve and I – there's no – I'm not doing anything with Steve." 

"Yeah, I can see that. Can I ask why the fuck not?" 

"What do you mean why not?" Bucky asks him, hope fluttering in his chest like wing beats.  

"Barnes, I love you man, I really do, but you are the dumbest chump I've ever met." Sam stares at him. "You got my boy Steve moping around at home, thinking he came on too strong - thinking you don't feel the same way and that he drove you out - thinking he fucked up with someone he cares about." 

Bucky's stomach drops out. "He's – how can he think – of _course_ I feel -"  

"Yeah, I know you feel the same, 'cause I've spent more than three seconds around you in Steve's company. The two of you are so obvious it's alarming that we are even here having this conversation. You are like the poster children for ineffective communication skills, man." 

Bucky just gapes at him, at a loss.  

"Yeah, like that." Sam smirks. "Listen, do yourself, do us all, a favor and go _talk_ to the guy. 'Cause I can't handle another second of Steve's self-sacrificing 'it's all my fault' bullshit, and from the looks of you, you aren't doing too hot either." 

"You really know how to butter a guy up, Wilson," Bucky sputters back. 

"We're in the wrong aisle for that man – dairy and sympathy are aisle six."  

"I don't get a little sympathy?" 

"Not when your problem can be solved by a simple conversation. He loves you too – get your head out of your ass, take him at his word, and realize how lucky you fucking idiots are to have found each other in the first place." 

"You've got it all figured out, huh?" Bucky stammers, feeling sheepish.  

"The love of my life is halfway across the world, throwing himself out of planes every day. A little perspective on chance and circumstance helps. Just take my word for it and go take _your_ chance before it gets away from you."  

Bucky is suddenly seized by the urge to do just that. He returns his Cheerios box to the shelf in front of him, nods at Sam, and starts walking quickly towards the front of the store.  

"Attaboy" he hears Sam's voice call behind him.  

Bucky turns out of the store and down into the metro station, hopping on the B line and wondering just where he's headed.  

 _To_ _Steve's_ _?_  

Bucky's mind is afloat with questions and their potential answers. He thinks about Nat's insistence on choice and action, Sam's opinions on luck and chance, Maggie's weary gratefulness.  

 _Everyone's been telling me the same thing._  

 _Are you ever_ _gunna_ _listen?_  

He's feeling frantic and uneasy and he pulls out his iPhone and headphones in an attempt to calm himself, pressing the Shuffle button on a whim.  

The song that starts to play is 'Harvest' by Neil Young. As soon as the first chords hit his ears, Bucky feels his eyes well up.  

 _Of course._   

"… Will I see you give more than I can take? / Will I only harvest some? / As the days fly past will we lose our grasp / Or fuse it in the sun? …" 

He's been so stupid. He's been so _afraid_.  

But he's also been the luckiest son of a bitch alive.  

He found Steve and Steve found him back. Who is he to turn that away? And for what, simple panic?  

"… Did she wake you up to tell you that / It was only a change of plan / Dream up, dream up, let me fill your cup / With the promise of a man …"  

It's true that neither one of them can promise that things will work out; the promises of men are fickle, transient things, as with everything in this life. For a second he feels the ghost pain of his missing arm acutely, but it passes in a heartbeat.  

 _No promises, no_ _guarantees_ _. Isn't that what everyone's been telling you?_  

 _Haven't they also meant that that sets you free?_  

He thinks about anger and disappointment and how easy it is to lose someone. How easily life takes things from you.  

He thinks about iPods and bright smiles and how rarely life gifts you things. The importance of keeping your eyes open, because if you aren't looking you might not catch your luck staring back at you from under the bench seat of an empty metro car.  

Still agitated, he presses the forward button on his phone screen, starting the next random song.  

It's 'Just the Two Of Us' by Bill Withers.  

 _Oh my fuckin' God._  

Bucky can't help but laugh wetly, feeling mildly hysterical.  

 _'You and I.' That's the heart of it, isn't it? It's not just about you and your fear – Steve's in this too._   

That had been the part of Sam's little speech that had cut Bucky to the core: the thought of Steve doubting what it is between them, of Steve thinking he'd done something wrong, of Steve not _knowing_.  

More than anything, the force of it overpowering his trepidation, Bucky needs Steve to know - to know how amazing he is, how good and wonderfully strange and worthy.   

Not just because Bucky thinks so, but because it's _true_.   

And Bucky loves him with everything he's got. It might not be much, but Steve should know that too.   

Bucky looks up from his seat as the train pulls into the next stop. The crowd thins and suddenly, down at the other end of the car, there's Steve.  

And it's déjà vu, it's a skipping record, it's fucking fate.  

Bucky is suddenly, totally and completely calm. He knows what he has to do now, and fear isn’t going to stop him.  

He gets up and walks toward Steve, pulling his earbuds out as he goes. Steve looks up when Bucky is a few feet away and when their eyes meet Bucky's resolve strengthens tenfold.  

Steve's face shuffles through emotions at speed: surprise, joy, ruefulness, relief.  

"I love you," Bucky blurts out, finally coming to a stop just in front of Steve and reaching for the pole Steve is holding.  

Steve's face creases up into a smile, his eyes crinkled and glossed with tears that don't fall. "I know," he says, softly.    

Bucky pauses for a beat before replying, "Did you just Han Solo AND Criss Chros me, Rogers? You are such a perfect nerd." He tries to laugh, but his voice breaks on it. He sounds almost hysterical, but inside he's clear, focused; he has a mission, he needs to make Steve understand. "But Steve, no, Steve really - I love you. I love you, I need you to understand that."   

"I do, Bucky, I do. I believe you."   

"I'm just so _scared_ , Steve. I can't - I've always been so scared. And with you, it's worse. Because I can't - I _can't -_  I don't want to lose you, Steve. And I'm terrified, but it's not you I'm scared of, I need you to know that."   

"I know, I know. But you aren't going to lose me." Steve reaches out his hand, waits for Bucky to place his palm into Steve's.   

Bucky doesn't hesitate, sliding their palms together and interlacing their fingers. The symbolism of the gesture isn't lost on him, though; he's only got one hand and he's giving it to Steve, trusting Steve to be his literal anchor against the tide of the train's movement.  

Steve squeezes his hand once. "Would it help to know that I'm scared too?" he asks.   

Bucky feels the urge to laugh come bubbling up. Instead he feels tears spill over his cheeks, leaving hot tracks from eyes to chin.  

On the one hand it does help, on the other - _I_ _t really fucking doesn't._  

Shouldn't one of them be capable and sure? He's such a disaster - wouldn't he need Steve to be stronger, to prop him up?  

 _Shouldn't one of us know how to drive this thing?_   

But no, Steve's only human. It would be taking something away from Steve to expect perfection, to expect Steve to compensate for all of his own missing pieces. To expect perfection from Steve would be to reduce him to a two-dimensional fantasy. And Bucky doesn't want a fantasy, Bucky wants _Steve_.   

"No. Maybe. Yes." He grins ruefully at Steve through his tears.   

Steve lets an answering smile briefly light his face before sliding back into seriousness. He starts, "I can't promise you that things are going to work out between us -"   

Both of their hands tighten at these words, their shared grip becoming almost painful.   

"- and you can't promise me that either. But I do know that we aren't going to stop being afraid until we find out there's nothing to be afraid of."  

 They are both quiet for a moment, holding eye contact.   

"I'm sorry I acted that way that morning," Steve murmurs, his voice soft. "I shouldn’t have pushed you. I should have been more patient." He looks down and grimaces slightly, and Bucky can tell that he's angry with himself.   

"Hey, Steve, you didn't - you didn't push me." Bucky thinks briefly of Brock before dismissing him altogether; Steve isn't Brock and Brock isn't Steve, it's useless to compare them. "You were just telling me how you felt. I'm sorry I didn't let you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you how I felt, then."    

"Think you can let me, now?" There's a smile in Steve's voice that doesn't quite make it to his face.  

Bucky realizes that he's afraid, afraid that Bucky will say 'no.'   

" _Please,"_ Bucky pleads.   

"I love you." Steve's voice is quiet, almost a whisper, as if he half expects Bucky to cut him off again.   

An overwhelming warmth spreads through Bucky's chest and he feels suddenly buoyant. The familiar wave of panic crashes on him as well, but this time he's expecting it, this time he's prepared. His feet stay still.  

He's in control of himself, but it's still too much. He's too filled up with feeling. A little of it leaks out, in the form of a few more hot, salty tears.    

Bucky pulls his hand from Steve's to scrub the wetness off his face. He glances down at his feet, embarrassed, not wanting to look over at the other passengers around them, the strangers who must be registering the scene he's making. He wipes his palm under his nose and meets Steve's eyes. "Hell, Rogers. How can you love me? I'm a fucking mess - are you seeing this?"   

"Jesus, Buck, are you kidding me? I'm looking right at you." Steve's eyes are clear and earnest and impossibly blue. "I'm looking right at you."  

And suddenly, that's the simple, staggering truth. Steve sees him.   

And he sees Steve.  

And that's more than enough.   

The train slows and then grinds to a halt. It's Steve's stop. Without a word, Bucky takes Steve's hand in his once more. They exit the car, together. The doors shudder closed behind them.  

The platform is packed with the evening rush of home-goers. A few yards away a busker is playing a song on a battered guitar, his voice almost completely drowned in the echoing chaos of the crowded station. Bucky can't make out the words, but the music's there regardless. There like it's always been: ricocheting off the walls of the station and dancing around Steve and Bucky's heads, filling up the air between them.   

They exit to the street. Bucky doesn't let go.   

  

\---  

  

 **Eight Months Later**   

  

Bucky is pushing his way through the foot traffic on Lexington, trying to make his way toward the closest metro station. The chaos around him is a mess of pushing, jostling, chattering humanity that is so unequivocally 'New York' that he is simultaneously comforted and irritated. It's been a long, eventful day at the hospital and he still has a few hours of studying ahead of him once he gets home, and on his way he should really stop and pick up some -   

His phone rings, vibrating against his thigh in the pocket of his scrubs. The ringtone that accompanies the vibration is almost lost in the din around him, but the faint, tinny sound of Van Morrison's 'Astral Weeks' reaches his ears and makes him smile before he even reads the call screen. He fishes the phone out and swipes to answer.   

"Babe! I'm sorry about this, but I'm stuck at the college helping 'Tisha out with her project and we're having the hardest time with the – you know, I won’t go into it, but let's just say the color blue is being very uncooperative today – anyhow, do you think you could swing by the store for some toilet paper on your way home? I don't think I'll have a spare minute."   

Bucky smiles again as Steve winds down his babbling. "'Hello' to you too," he responds, just to be a shit.   

"Oh, sorry, Hellooooooo. How's your day going? Is the color blue being more obliging on your end of things?"  

"Blue has been completely amenable - Mrs. Pierson's leg, not so much. But we pushed through it, pretty literally for a while. I'm exhausted, but it was a fairly successful day in the end. I'll stop for some toilet paper, no worries."  

"Oh man, thanks, you're the best. And I'm glad today was a good one. I'll see you at home later, yeah?"  

"Yeah, on my way now, got a bit of review work to get through. Do we still have leftover Indian?"   

"Mhmm, there's a decent amount of paneer and a ton of curry in the fridge – and plenty of jasmine rice in the pantry. I forget what cabinet the pressure cooker is in but it's there somewhere."  

"It's on the shelf over the stove – and thank God, I'm fucking starving. Alright, I'll see you once you finish beating blue into submission."  

"Let's hope. Okay, love you, see you 'round seven. Don't forget the toilet paper. Oh and if you could grab some pea-"  

"Peanut butter, I know. Jesus, Rogers, you gotta be at least seventy-percent peanut butter on a _light_ day. Like, how many licks does it take to get to the nutty center of a Stevie-pop?"  

"I mean, if you really wanna do the legwork on that query, I'm not going to stop you." Bucky can hear the cheeky smile in Steve's voice.   

"Legwork, huh?" Bucky replies, "Sounds rigorous. I'll start stretching."  

"Such a perv. Anyway, see you later - don't forget the toilet paper."  

"I won't forget the fucking toilet paper!"  

"Love you."  

"Love you too."  

Bucky hangs up and slips his phone back into his pocket. He lets the tide of people sweep him closer to the stairwell that leads down to the subway, oblivious to the elbows and purses that are pushing into his space from all sides, and grinning like an ape over bath tissue.   

 _Well maybe that. M_ _aybe everything else._   

His eyes are wide open, and it isn't so hard. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From 'Astral Weeks' by Van Morrison: "...And here I am / Standing in your sad arrest / Trying to do my very best / Lookin' straight at you..." 
> 
> AHHH! Finished! We got here! YAY!  
> I cannot express how much I appreciate all of you reading and commenting and liking this.  
> You made my first fic a truly wonderful and enjoyable experience.  
> SO MUCH THANK. DYING OF THANK.  
> (I want to respond to every comment but I just get so flustered and screechy that the only thing I can think to do is just dish out that heart-eyes-motherfucker gif like confetti. Which I so would, if I knew how to do such a thing – please just imagine it for now. <3 <3 <3)


	12. Ghost Track

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue, of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song goes out to the two idiots that let me write this fic about them. What a pair of goons. 
> 
> <3

The room is dark. A desk lamp sits on a bookshelf to one side, throwing a small pool of yellow light. Illuminated objects stand out in the dim as if outlined.

A drafting table angled half in, half out of the gleam, sketches and photographs taped and clamped to the tilted surface. A stack of textbooks perched on the corner of a desk, the uppermost one open to a page displaying an anatomical drawing of a foot and thin lines of text. A record player on a small table beneath the window, needle winking in the lamp's glow as the record makes lazy revolutions, around and around. A potted plant with glossy, lobed leaves. A discarded pair of sneakers, laces loose and limp.

A couple, with their arms around each other.   

They are standing in the center of the room, in front of the large couch, embracing. Three arms encircling, faces tilted in. They aren't dancing so much as slowly shifting to the music, back and forth, back and forth, their sway on a much slower tempo than that of the song filtering in around them.   

Steve is in a thin t-shirt and briefs, Bucky in just a pair of sweatpants, the bare muscles of his back shifting in the soft light. Neither wears shoes, neither wears socks.

A voice croons vibrantly from speakers hidden somewhere in the darkness beyond the lamp's glow: Billie Holiday in her husky rendition of 'Blue Moon.'   

  

 _Blue Moon, y_ _ou knew just what I was there for_   

 _You heard me saying a prayer for_   

 _Someone I really could care for_   

  

Bucky's arm tightens infinitesimally around Steve's lower back, his soft exhale washing soft over Steve's shoulder, warming Steve's skin through the fabric of his shirt.   

Out of sight, down the hall, is a darkened bedroom. One bed with rumpled flannel sheets. A bookshelf stuffed with dog-eared, colorful paperbacks, textbooks swollen with note-cards and bookmarks, immaculate, glossy-covered art reference volumes, and a tiny, masked bear. A prosthetic arm lays on the dresser, recently removed for the night. A messy clothes hamper. A stack of folded khakis on a chair. A little spindled table topped with an alarm clock, two pairs of glasses, and a beat up, white iPod Classic.   

The music filters in from the living room.   

  

 _And then there suddenly appeared before me_   

 _The only one my arms will ever hold_   

 _I heard somebody whisper 'please adore me'_   

  

Back in the half-light the dancers continue to sway.   

Steve whispers along to the last three words of the verse, the sentiment transmitted to Bucky not as sound but as touch, Steve's lips pressing their soft shapes into the skin of Bucky's neck.

A vibration in Bucky's chest where it presses to Steve's. White teeth flash briefly in the dark.  

"Such a fuckin' sap, Rogers."   

Bucky's arm tightens further. The music plays on.  

 

 


End file.
